


Gone, Gone

by CdnGingerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, additional tags as I think of them, also rated M for language, chaptered work, no fluff here, not domestfic, rated M for drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/CdnGingerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock slips back into some bad habits, and both he and John have choices to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a departure for me in that it's not a domestfic, so no fluff here. This is darker than anything I've written before, so warnings for that. I intend this to be a chaptered work, we'll see how it goes!
> 
> I don't own Sherlock or related characters. Just making them suffer a bit.

_I caught you knocking at my cellar door_

_I love you baby, can I have some more_

_Oh, oh, the damage done_

(The Needle and the Damage Done, ©Neil Young, 1971)

 

For someone who can deduce someone’s secrets at a glance, Sherlock Holmes is remarkably private about his own.

He rarely discusses his childhood, or the agony of boarding school, or the supreme torment of university.

When someone approaches Sherlock on the street to talk to him, or give him something; when they go to a shop or a restaurant and the owner greets Sherlock like an old friend; when he comments on a piece of art or an older pop song, John Watson realizes that there is a lot he doesn’t know about Sherlock, his past life, his past experiences.

However, one thing Sherlock has always been open about is his past drug use. John knows that Sherlock has an addictive personality, that now he is addicted to the work, and to nicotine, and to John himself, rather than more noxious, illegal substances. But he also knows that addicts are addicts, and that all it takes is a slip, a moment of weakness, for all a recovering addict’s hard work to be completely undone. He knows that addictions are never truly cured

Despite this knowledge, John is not particularly worried that Sherlock will return to his old habits. When they first started sleeping together, they were both rigorously tested, and came back clean. He periodically makes a sweep of the flat for old or forgotten substances Sherlock may have stashed in his various hidey-holes. And, to be honest, he really doesn’t think Sherlock has either the time or the opportunity to use, if he wanted to. He’s either working, or he’s not, but either way he spends so much of his time with John that there is no way he could take anything and not have John know about it.

~~

There is a heat wave going on in London.

It is absolutely sweltering, one of the hottest Augusts on record. The temperature has hovered near twenty-eight degrees or higher for nearly a week, and night time brings very little relief. It is too hot to cook, almost too hot to eat; it is even, to the chagrin of Sherlock and John, too hot for their normal brand of stress relief.

This is unfortunate, because the heat brings out the worst in some people, and if there is someone who could use stress relief, it is Sherlock. John is beginning to think there are not enough cold showers in the world to keep him and Sherlock from killing each other.

John, at least, manages to escape to the air-conditioned haven of the surgery each day. Every other doctor there seems to be taking their allotted two weeks to escape London, and John has been working steadily for three of them. He still has to face a cranky consulting detective when he gets home, however. This week he has taken to stopping at Tesco Metro every second day to pick up pints of ice cream, since it’s the only thing Sherlock will eat without complaining.

John shuffles up the stairs. He doesn’t mind the heat, especially not like this; it’s not the oven of Afghanistan, after all. But he is tired. The heat sucks energy like a vacuum, and Sherlock sucks whatever remaining energy John has left with his constant whinging and complaining. It seems that, along with the doctors at the surgery, most of the interesting criminals have gone on holiday as well, and Sherlock, who cannot manage heat well, has been bored to tears. John hopes a pint of butterscotch ripple will be enough to keep a lid on whatever explosions might occur tonight.

And he does mean explosions. On the second day of the heat wave, Sherlock managed to burst three eyeballs (“thus conclusively proving that heat has an adverse effect on gelatinous masses of the body, John”). On the fourth day, John came home to a foamy mass of something (“hydrogen peroxide, saturated potassium iodide, and washing liquid, John”). Today was day six, and John is half-surprised, when he opens the door to the flat, that he doesn’t smell anything odd and, indeed, that the flat is still standing.

It seems he needn’t have worried, however. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, fingers steepled against his lips, the electric fan sweeping back and forth mere inches from his face.

“Ooh, have you done “Luke, I am your father” yet?” John asks, setting the bag with the ice cream on the coffee table.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Nothing, it’s a joke. Kind of weird joke. You’re dressed.”

Sherlock has indeed dispensed with his recent uniform of pajama pants and no shirt. He is now wearing a pair of beige linen trousers with the cuffs turned up, and a white cotton button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. With the fan blowing his black curls here and there, and his bare, delicate-boned feet and ankles stretched out in front of him, he looks like he should be on a brochure for some Greek resort.

“I had a case.”

John pauses in the act of finding clean bowls and spoons for their “dinner”. “A case? Anything good?”

“Not really. It was something, though. And it involved someone I used to know, so I thought I would have a look. It’s done already, nothing for you to be concerned about.”

John carries two bowls of ice cream into the sitting room. He moves the fan from its perch on Sherlock’s lap and hands him the bigger serving. “I wasn’t concerned, I was curious, is all,” he says, sitting on the corner of the sofa and turning the fan so it catches both of them. “What happened?”

Sherlock stabs with his spoon irritably, and then licks off a vein of butterscotch. “Nothing, really. Drug deal gone badly, but as I said, someone asked me to look into it, so I did. Very obvious what happened, even Anderson could have figured it out.”

John swirls his spoon; his ice cream is rapidly melting into soup. “What did Lestrade have to say?”

“Nothing, he wasn’t there. He didn’t text me this one.”

The only sound is dripping as ice cream falls from John’s spoon. “He didn’t… He didn’t call you?”

“John, surely the heat hasn’t scrambled your brains like so many eggs. No, someone came by, asked me to take a look, so I went. It was a quick thing. Case closed. Literally.” Sherlock stirs his ice cream violently, and then slams the bowl on the table. “I can’t eat this anymore. Let’s go out, please?”

With a sigh, John puts his bowl on the table too. “Sure. Angelo’s?”

“That would be nice, John. Thank you.”

John pauses in the act of tying his trainers. “Please _and_ thank you? The heat must be getting to you.”

Sherlock huffs as he slips into his loafers. “I’m not a complete prat, John.”

“No, just a partial one,” John says fondly.

~~

Four days later, the heat wave has broken and the temperature is down to a more manageable and seasonal twenty-four degrees. John is still working at the surgery, which is probably why he misses all the signs.

ALL of them.

Lestrade texted two days ago and Sherlock has been working non-stop on an art smuggling case. He assures John again and again that it’s nothing, that he doesn’t actually need him this time. John is secretly relieved; while he misses being out with his lanky partner, their high-fat heat wave diet put a serious crimp in the grocery budget for the month and they do need the money. He has another three guaranteed weeks of work while the other doctors finish their holiday leave, and, provided Sherlock gets paid for this case, they should be able to make rent for the first of September.

Sherlock, meanwhile, has been working like a maniac. He is so fast he seems to be flying around the flat, and he’s speaking even faster than usual. When he finishes with the art smuggler he crashes for twelve hours, and then he’s up and flying again, this time after a blackmailer. John has been working constantly himself. He is pulling fourteen-hour days at the surgery, and is generally exhausted when he gets home. Sherlock is either gone, or working in overdrive, or asleep. Aside from a couple of quick hand jobs in the shower one night, there is little to no intimacy between them right now.

On August twenty-eighth, John finishes his last shift at the surgery. He’s picked up Indian and is about to put his key in the door when he notices a young man lurking just beside the entrance to Speedy’s. John frowns; the young man is wearing grubby jeans and trainers, not an unusual outfit for a London street kid. He is, however, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled low over his face, despite the relative warmth of the evening. John peers closer; the boy (he really is a boy, John realizes, can’t be more than fifteen) is pale and shaky, and he seems to be sniffling.

“Can I help you?”

The boy sniffles again and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, mate. D’you know Sherlock?” His voice is hoarse; it sounds like he’s been eating gravel.

“Er, yes, d’you need him? Are you one of his homeless network?” John gets a look at the boy’s eyes. They’re bloodshot, but his irises are a startling green, made brighter by the red wash that seems to have overlaid them.

“Naw mate, I’m not part of no—no network, I just, I just need Sherlock.” His teeth are chattering and he can barely force the words out.

John looks at the bag in his hand. He has a lot of food, and if Sherlock’s working, he will eat little, if at all. “I think he’s upstairs. Would you like to come up, maybe have some dinner?”

The boy is shaking in earnest now. His hands are trembling, and he seems to be shivering badly. “Naw, naw, mate. Just Sherlock, if he’s there, send him down? He was holding on to something for me,” he finishes, a bit desperately.

John tilts his head to the side as he regards this strange figure. It speaks heavily to his exhaustion that he thinks the boy is merely suffering from a bad summer cold or flu. “Sure, I’ll see if he’s there. Meantime,” and he dips his hand in the pocket of his corduroys, “get yourself a tea? On me,” and he drops a few pound coins into the boy’s shaking hand.

The boy closes his hand tightly around the change, and he closes his eyes. “Sherlock please, hurry,” he rasps out.

John gazes at him, then shakes his head and turns the key. “He’ll be out in a moment, probably,” he says as he closes the door. “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you home?” he calls.

There is no answer.

 _Odd_ , John thinks. Sherlock hadn’t texted him to say he was going to be out. _Maybe he’s crashed again? He could definitely use the sleep_.

When John pushes open the sitting room door, the bag of Indian food drops from his nerveless fingers. He can’t move. He can’t breathe.

All he can see is Sherlock lying on the sofa, the tie from his dressing gown looped around his left bicep, one end still clenched tightly in his teeth. There is a streak of blood running from his elbow down to his wrist, where it drips onto the floor.

But what really catches John’s attention, more than the ligature, more than the blood, even, is the hypodermic needle sticking out the crook of Sherlock’s elbow.

_____________________________________________

To listen to The Needle and the Damage Done by the brilliant Neil Young, click [here](http://www.mp3ye.eu/09-the-needle-and-the-damage-done-mp3-download_254706.html).

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s heart has stopped. He’s almost positive he’s going to fall dead on the floor of the flat. He can’t breathe, he can’t… it’s like someone tied off the tops of his lungs like balloons, no air going in or out. None.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was updated a lot (A LOT) faster than I anticipated. It's also a lot longer than I anticipated, but I wanted to get some exposition out of the way before the angst comes up. No guarantees on how fast chapter 3 comes out; I have 120 exams to mark this weekend.
> 
> Before people jump on me for medical terminology and whatnot, I freely admit the vast majority my medical knowledge comes from Grey's Anatomy and ER. As well, I really have no idea as to how long it would take an ambulance to get anywhere in London. Not Brit-picked; all mistakes my own.

_I hit the city and I lost my band_

_I watched the needle take another man_

_Gone, gone, the damage done_

(The Needle and the Damage Done, ©Neil Young, 1971)

 

Fuck.

FUCK.

This is the only word John Watson can process right now, as he stares at his flatmate (no, scratch that, his lover, he and Sherlock are _lovers_ ) lying prone on the sofa, a strip of blue silk tied so tightly around his biceps that John can see veins popped from here, and, more to the point, a _fucking hypodermic needle_ sticking out of the crook of his elbow at an angle.

John’s heart has stopped. He’s almost positive he’s going to fall dead on the floor of the flat. He can’t breathe, he can’t… it’s like someone tied off the tops of his lungs like balloons, no air going in or out. None. He grabs the doorframe for support.

But then there’s a roar in his ears, and his heart starts beating, and he releases his breath with a whoosh. He feels nauseous, and he has to swallow hard to keep from vomiting in panic. But the trained parts of him, Doctor Watson, Captain Watson, come alive, and his brain snaps to.

Grabbing his mobile, he dials 999 as he shoves the bag of Indian food away from the door and moves smoothly and competently to Sherlock’s side. With a flick, he puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the coffee table as he kneels. He’s going to need two hands for this.

_“999, what service do you require?”_

“This is Dr. John Watson. I need an ambulance to 221B Baker Street, for a possible drug overdose.”

_“Be advised, ambulance is dispatched. ETA approximately five minutes. Is the subject awake?”_

“No. But he’s breathing, barely, and…” John gropes for Sherlock’s neck, and nearly sobs with relief. “Pulse is weak and thready, but present.”

_“Understood. ETA still five minutes. Subject’s name?”_

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s hands are steady, even though his entire body wants to fly apart. He gently eases Sherlock’s mouth open until he can release the end of the tie, and yanks it free from his bicep. At the same time, he carefully removes the hypo from Sherlock’s arm and sets it on the table; he’ll want to have a look at it later. He presses two fingers to the injection site; blood is flowing now that he has released the ligature.

 _“ETA now three minutes, sir. Any idea what drug Mr. Holmes took, Dr. Watson?”_ He can hear the dispatcher typing as she speaks to him. Her voice is calm, yet alert.

“I don’t know… he’s had history with cocaine, but it could be heroin.” He pulls his penlight from his pocket and peels Sherlock’s eyelids back. The pupils are mere pinpricks and not reactive. John quickly examines the detective’s face and hands and notices a bluish tinge around his lips and in his fingernails. “Scratch that, it is heroin. Fuck.” Dr. Watson is no stranger to heroin overdoses; he spent enough time in Afghanistan to see the opiate take the lives of countless locals and more than a few colleagues.

_“Understood, Doctor. ETA one minute now.”_

John closes his eyes, and then opens them again to stare at the unconscious Sherlock’s face. He grips his hand tightly. “Jesus, Sherlock, if you die on me, I will bring you back and so help me God, I will fucking shoot you! Do you hear me, Sherlock! I will shoot you myself if you don’t come back from this!” He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to picture Sherlock smiling, Sherlock shouting, anything but this, his white face with its blue lips and closed eyes.

There’s a pounding on the door, and from the mobile, the dispatcher’s voice is saying _“Doctor? Dr. Watson? They’ve arrived, they’re in front of the building.”_

The paramedics come pounding up the stairs, a man and a woman. They’re carrying red bags; the man quickly and professionally grips John’s shoulders and shifts him carefully out of the way, while his partner kneels beside the sofa. She quickly checks Sherlock’s pulse, then shakes her head and, leaving her bag, runs quickly down the stairs.

“Dr. Watson? You called it in?” When John nods, the male paramedic nods in return. “I’m Smith, that’s Jess. She’s just gone to get the board, easiest to use with these narrow stairs. You think heroin?”

John nods again. “Pulse weak, pupils non-reactive, blue lips. He’s…” John swallows hard; his mouth is dry. “He’s a former addict, but mostly cocaine. Morphine too, I think, but that was years ago.” Behind him, Jess has returned with the hardboard, and another bag, slung over her shoulder.

“Right.” She comes to stop beside Sherlock again. “We’re going to give a dose of Naloxone in the field.” She nods at Smith, who slips past John. In less than thirty seconds, they’ve gotten Sherlock flat on the spine board,  and Jess has gloved up and pulled a syringe from a case in her bag. “Dr. Watson, do you know if Mr. Holmes has any allergies?”

“Penicillin. And peanuts.” Now that the paramedics are doing their work and all he is doing is standing around, John can feel himself going numb. _Shock_ , he thinks. _I’m going into shock_. As he watches, he experiences a peculiar sensation, the different parts of himself feel detached. There’s John Watson, Sherlock’s partner, standing in shock, trying not to scream; there’s Doctor Watson, trying hard not to jump in and do everything he can; there’s Captain Watson, watching his comrades work on a man down. He struggles to pull John Watson back from the edge, and feels Captain Watson’s backbone stiffen.

“Good, sir, thank you.” She injects the liquid from the syringe into Sherlock’s upper arm. “Alright. Can you ride with us? We have the gear in the ambulance, could you start an IV for us?”

When John nods, Jess nods smartly and stands. “Right. Let’s get him to Bart’s.” And she and Smith each take one end of the board and carry Sherlock’s still (almost too still) form carefully down the stairs and out the front door. John grabs his mobile and follows.

~~

In the ambulance, John experiences a sense of almost déjà-vu as he tries to start an IV in a moving vehicle. Shaking his head to clear it of memories of sand, heat, and gunfire, he takes a deep breath and tries to slip the needle into the back of Sherlock’s left wrist. He frowns and slaps it impatiently.

“Collapsed vein. Jesus. Alright, Sherlock, let’s try the other side.” He takes another breath; this time, the needle slides home. “Alright, we’re in business.”

Smith, who’s riding in the back with them, passes him a bag of saline; John connects it expertly and hangs it from a stationary pole as Smith slips a mask over Sherlock’s face. He listens to Sherlock’s lungs with a stethoscope, and frowns. “I don’t like his breathing,” he says, passing the scope to John so he can listen for himself.

Smith’s right: Sherlock’s breaths are much too shallow, and there is an eternity between each one. John meets the paramedic’s eyes. “Bag him,” he says.

“I’m on it.” Smith quickly attaches a self-inflating bag, and steadily works air into Sherlock’s lungs. He looks at John. “It doesn’t look good, Dr. Watson, but I’ve seen worse. We lost an overdose last week; not the best day, to say the least.”

John takes Sherlock’s left hand in his and holds it tightly. “I can’t… I can’t. I can’t think about that, Smith. Just keep bagging him.”

Smith nods. “We’re still about five minutes out from Bart’s, if you need to call someone?”

John nods. He pulls out his mobile and dials Lestrade. He gets his voicemail, and leaves a message asking him to call back ASAP. Then he takes a deep breath, and makes a call he never thought he’d ever make.

“This is Mycroft Holmes.”

~~

All three Watsons are pacing in the Emergency department at Bart’s when Mycroft, wearing bespoke black wool, strides in like he owns the place. _Bloody hell, he probably does_ , John thinks. Sherlock’s brother is in front of him in three strides.

“John. _John._ Where is he now?”

John Watson, partner to the eccentric detective, threatens to claw his way out; he just wants to grip Mycroft’s arms and sink to his knees while he screams and cries hot tears of anguish. But Doctor Watson shoves him firmly to the side and takes charge.

“They gave him Naloxone in the flat, we put in an IV en route and bagged him. They took him through for another dose and to get his breathing regulated. It doesn’t look like the worst, Mycroft, but it doesn’t look good.” John Watson tries to assert himself with a quivering voice at the end, but Captain Watson takes him to the side and sits on him and Doctor Watson is still firmly in charge. “They’re trying to get him stabilized so he doesn’t slip into a coma.”

Mycroft nods; his eyes narrow slightly, like he knows what’s going on in John’s head right now. “And what happened at the flat?”

“I came home, and he was unconscious on the sofa.” Doctor Watson keeps his voice clinical, detached; John Watson is fighting to get up and come out, but Captain Watson puts him in a headlock. “He had used the tie from his dressing gown as a ligature, and the hypodermic was sticking out of his arm. There was blood. I called 999 immediately. The paramedics were excellent.” John Watson is banging his fists on the ground and flailing, and Captain Watson looks like he can’t hold on much longer. “I took the needle out of his arm and left it on the coffee table; I want to know if what he took was contaminated.” His face feels hot.

Mycroft nods. “I’ll send someone to collect it right away.” He taps on his Blackberry quickly and slips it into his jacket pocket. “Anything else?”

“There was a boy. A kid, really. Hanging around, looking for Sherlock. He looked – Jesus, Mycroft, he looked completely strung out. I think… he might have been there to make a buy. Or maybe a sale. God, Mycroft, tell me Sherlock wasn’t dealing. Did he deal before?”

As Mycroft shakes his head, his phone chimes. He pulls it from his pocket and reads swiftly. “They found the syringe, John, where you left it. Did you go in the kitchen at all, when you found him?” When John shakes his head, he continues. “On the kitchen table, my people found an eyedropper, thought to contain lemon juice. They also found a spoon, and Sherlock’s lighter. The… substance left in the bowl of the spoon was brown.” Mycroft frowns and his mouth twists like he’s tasting something bitter. “John, did you know anything about this? He’s never just jumped in before. What’s going on here?”

Doctor Watson opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, John Watson punches Captain Watson in the gut and comes surging forward. “I—I…” he stammers, and suddenly the floor is rushing up to meet him.

“John! Jesus, get a doctor!” He hears, before he’s drowning in a haze of black.

~~

When he comes to, he’s lying in one of the blood donation chairs. He’s wrapped in a blanket, and his legs are elevated. Mycroft is sitting beside him, frowning as he taps away on his Blackberry; behind him by the door is Anthea, tapping double-speed on hers.

John’s head swims. For a moment, he feels the three parts of himself fighting it out in his head, and then Doctor Watson and Captain Watson fade into the background, and there is only John Watson, sitting with his partner’s brother, feeling lost and stressed and, quite frankly, very much afraid.

He clears his throat. “How… how long…”

Mycroft looks up briefly, then back down at his phone. “Not long, only a few hours. They gave you a mild sedative, and this was the most out-of-the-way spot for you to sleep it off.”

“Sedated? Why?”

“Oh, come now, John. You were clearly under a great deal of stress, and you are of no use to Sherlock – or to me - that way.” He looks up again, and fixes the penetrating Holmes gaze on John’s face. “I don’t think you told me everything. Am I correct?”

John is beginning to feel hot again. “What? I told you everything. You don’t think I’m hiding something, do you?” Anger is starting to boil in his gut. “Mycroft, what the hell—“

Mycroft puts up a hand to forestall any outburst. “No, no, not at all, John,” he says soothingly. “I just think perhaps you forgot some details. Can you think a little harder, please? Is there anything you’re not telling me, anything at all?”

“I don’t really understand what you want to know, Mycroft. I told you everything that happened. I guess I didn’t tell you I was bringing home Indian takeaway, but—“

“For God’s sake, John!” Mycroft is out of his chair like a shot; he begins pacing, clearly trying to get his breathing under control. Anthea doesn’t even move an eyebrow. With obvious effort, he stops moving and takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly; John is suddenly, inexplicably reminded of the ritual the snipers he served with would engage in before taking their shot. “John. This is my brother we are talking about. If there is anything, anything at all you can tell me about how we got here…” He swallows and slumps back down in his chair. “John, I have been in this place, where you are, where we are, more times than you can imagine. And every time, he railed at me, he said horrible things, the worst things, but he swore it was the last time. And finally it was, it was the last time, he was clean and he stayed clean for over ten years. So John, I am asking you, tell me anything, anything you know that can help me understand why I am sitting in this hospital again, while my little brother, my only brother, is upstairs sedated, possibly at risk for respiratory failure and God knows what else. You care about him; he cares about you, more than he has for possibly any other person he has ever known. Help me, John. Help him.”

John shakes his head to make sure it’s completely clear of sedation; he’s almost positive he’s seeing things, but no, sitting beside him, in a hard plastic hospital chair, is Mycroft Holmes, member of Her Majesty’s government, the man who can sit world leaders down to tea and prevent all-out war, a broken shell of a man. He looks exactly like John feels.

“Please John.” Mycroft’s voice is soft. “Please, think back to the time before you found him. Did anything happen the day before, or even earlier?”

John thinks carefully. It’s hard; his brain is fuzzy from the Lorazepam and he is getting sick with worry.

“Did you work any cases?”

“I didn’t work any cases at all, I was covering vacations at the clinic. But Sherlock…” He trails off as something sticks in his brain.

_“Nothing, really. Drug deal gone badly, but as I said, someone asked me to look into it, so I did. Very obvious what happened…”_

“He mentioned something about a drug deal gone badly, about, I guess just past three weeks ago? He said Lestrade didn’t call him in on it, someone came round and asked him to take a look.”

Mycroft nods grimly. “Very good. Did he say anything else?”

Wracking his brain, John shakes his head. “No. Actually, when I asked him for more details, he got a little stroppy. At the time, I thought it was the heat, but now… I guess I was wrong.”

“Hmm. Anthea?”

“Checking now, sir.” Anthea clicks away even faster.

“Thank you. What else did he work on in the past few weeks?”

John frowns. “I don’t know. I was working the whole time. I remember he was working hard, harder than I’d seen in a while, actually. He seemed to be going a mile a minute, and then he would just… crash.” His heart sinks. “Oh, fuck. _Fuck._ He was using the whole time, wasn’t he?”

“Most likely. Not heroin, but some sort of stimulant. Perhaps the tox screen will tell us more.” He rises and straightens the crease in his trousers. “It’s a start; we can begin checking CCTV footage going back three weeks.” He lays his hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you, John. I’ve left a man outside the door; he’ll take you to Sherlock’s room as soon as you’re ready. We will have to meet again soon, to decide what to do about this.”

“You mean rehab.” It isn’t a question.

Mycroft nods. “Sherlock is an addict, John, you know it, and I know it. He will never admit it, and he would likely threaten all manner of violence on me for saying it, but he needs help to get well. I already have a call in to the last place we used; however, he didn’t leave them on the best of terms last time, and they may well be reluctant to have him back.” He coughs discreetly. “I suppose we could… convince them, but I don’t think Mummy would be too happy to see the Holmes name gracing the new wing of a drug rehab centre rather than, perhaps, a children’s hospital.” He squeezes John’s shoulder again. “Please take care of yourself, John. As I said, you can’t help Sherlock if you’re not well. We’ll speak again soon.”

As he turns to go, John clears his throat. “Mycroft, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to deal with this again. We’ll get him help, and we’ll get him well. I promise.”

Mycroft pauses in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around. “John, I know you mean well, and I appreciate the sentiment, but please don’t make promises you may not be able to keep.” He reaches for the doorknob, Anthea at his side, when it suddenly opens inward and the agent posted outside comes in.

“Sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade for Dr. Watson, if he’s up to it.” John barely has time to nod when the man himself enters on the agent’s heels. He nods in the direction of the reclining chair.

“John, I came as quickly as I could. Mycroft, sorry to see you again under these conditions,” he says, extending his hand. The elder Holmes shakes it firmly.

“Gregory, I wish I could say it was a pleasure.” He moves towards the door again, when Lestrade stops him.

“Wait, Mycroft, I have some information for you. We just pulled this out of a skip last night. The ID was a little hard to make, given the heat and how long he was there, but I think I’ve got the reason we’re all here.” He pulls out his phone and thumbs through the photos, then turns it towards Mycroft. “Look familiar?”

Mycroft peers at the phone, then sucks in his breath. “Jamey Hannigan?”

Lestrade nods. “Jamey Hannigan. And here’s me, thinking we’d taken care of this little problem for good.”

John clears his throat from his corner. “I’m sorry, who’s Jamey Hannigan?”

Lestrade hands him the phone. The picture is of a male corpse, obviously dead a while, bloated from gasses and the heat. John can still make out the blue smudge of a tattoo and a shock of ginger hair, even in the mobile phone photo. “He is – was, I suppose – the top heroin importer in London.”

John studies the photo some more. In death, the man doesn’t look like a drug kingpin. “Is this the case Sherlock looked into three weeks ago?”

“I have no idea, John. But if it was, this was likely the trigger that put him back on this road,” Mycroft answers grimly.

“Oh?”

Mycroft and Lestrade glance at each other. Lestrade answers. “Fifteen years ago, when Sherlock was still in Uni, Hannigan was just a low-level, low-life dealer. He didn’t push the big stuff, mainly just pills, Ecstasy, prescriptions, shit like that. His territory was Montague Street.”

John’s blood runs cold.

“Jamey Hannigan,” Mycroft says softly, “was Sherlock’s first dealer.”

“And now he’s dead,” Lestrade adds.

“You don’t think… that _Sherlock_ killed him, do you?” John cannot believe what he’s saying. He closes his eyes. _This can’t be happening_ , he thinks. _Sherlock, a killer? A drugged-out killer, at that?_

Mycroft shakes his head. “I think it’s very clear what happened here. Jamey was killed in a deal gone bad, and one of the other parties, likely one of Sherlock’s compatriots from the old days, as it were, panicked and ran to Sherlock.”

“But wouldn’t Sherlock be glad to see the man who got him hooked, dead?”

“Oh, make no mistake, John, Sherlock hated Hannigan with a passion,” Mycroft says. “But he was addicted to the product, and by extension, the man, for a long time. Gregory, I think you are correct. This was most likely was started him using again.” Mycroft takes his phone from his pocket, taps a few keys, and holds it thoughtfully. “Any ideas on who is tapped to replace our man?”

“All’s quiet for now, although a few middle-level dealers have started turning up in various alleys. Narcotics thinks they’re fighting it out. But you could keep tabs on them if you wanted, you know.”

Mycroft twists his mouth. “Gregory, you know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for Sherlock. Unfortunately, in the present climate, the government would be rather less than impressed were I to divert resources from  certain issues of global and economic stability to follow around a bunch of drug dealers. This is squarely New Scotland Yard’s purview, I’m afraid.” His phone chimes again, and he glances at it before returning it to his pocket. “And now I really must go; the Chinese ambassador is not a patient man.” He nods at both of them, and slips out, trailed by the silent Anthea.

Lestrade drops into Mycroft’s vacated chair. “Jesus, John, I can’t believe I’m back here, doing this again. And I can’t believe you got dragged along for the ride this time.”

John hugs himself tightly; he feels, suddenly, like he’s going to fly apart at the seams. “I missed it,” he says numbly. “I missed it all. I should have known.”

“Hey!” Lestrade shakes John’s shoulder sharply. “None of that, now. Don’t you dare blame yourself. You and me, we’re just average blokes, yeah? He’s fooled me before, he’s even fooled Mycroft. You were working all the time; hell, I was working _with_ him and I didn’t see it!” He shakes John’s shoulder again. “It’s horrible, there’s no two ways about it. And I can tell you, from experience, the way back is long, and hard, and he will say the worst things you can imagine, and you will want to leave him, or smother him with his pillow. But I have to tell you, John,” and he leans forward to look into John’s eyes, “I have to tell you, now that he has you, I have to think, now that he has someone to come back to, and come back for, he’ll come back.”

He stands, stretching out a kink in his back. “Fuck me, I’m tired. I’ll be by tomorrow to check on you two, yeah?” He offers his hand, and John shakes it woodenly. “Have you seen him since you brought him in?” John shakes his head. “I think you should, mate. You care about him, and he cares about you, it’s obvious. Shouldn’t you be the first thing he sees when he comes around? Just my opinion.”

John swings his legs off the chair and folds the blanket carefully. “I’ll walk you out.”

They leave the quiet room, and Mycroft’s agent looks up from his phone. He’s at least six-five and built like a tank. “I can take you up now, Dr. Watson,” he rumbles in a deep voice.

John smiles wanly. “Yeah, I guess now’s as good a time as ever.”

The agent moves aside. “Mr. Holmes took the liberty of having a bag packed for you, sir. He thought you would probably be here for some time.”

Lestrade looks at John out of the corner of his eye. “I think I can find my own way out, John. You’d better get on upstairs.” He nods at the agent and makes his way to the exit.

John looks at the bag and sighs. “Well then, I suppose we’d best find the lifts, right?”

The agents John’s duffel. “This way, sir.”

The ride up is silent; John is lost in his thoughts. What is he going to do? What is he going to say to Sherlock when he wakes up?

He refuses to consider the possibility that Sherlock may not wake up.

They exit the lift and the agent tilts his head to the left. “Down here, sir,” he says softly. “Number 406.” He escorts John to the door and sets his bag down. “I’ll be here overnight, sir. By the way, the name’s Agent Lynn.” He shakes firmly, his giant hand engulfing John’s smaller one. “Good luck, sir.” He moves to a position just to the left of the door.

John peers through the window; his heart is suddenly pounding and his palms feel clammy. Straight ahead, he can see a ventilator, a heart monitor, a shock of black curls.

Sherlock.

He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a fair amount of research online about heroin overdose, what it looks like, and how to treat it. The following websites were invaluable: http://health.nytimes.com/health/guides/poison/heroin-overdose/overview.html  
> http://www.camh.net/about_addiction_mental_health/drug_and_addiction_information/heroin_dyk.html  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroin#Injection  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroin  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opioid_overdose  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naloxone
> 
> As well as wikipedia pages about paramedics (apparently, paramedics in the UK do carry and administer Naloxone in the field), as well as sundry medical equipment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck, Sherlock,” he whispers. “What did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst, here. Long conversations; John does not come off looking great. Mentions of sex and drug use; ye be warned!

**Chapter 3**

_We’re making this shit up_

_The reasons for being are easy to pay_

_You can’t remember the others_

_They just kind of went away…_

_We’re done lying for a living_

_Strange days are coming and you’re gone, you’re gone_

_Either dead or dying_

_Either dead or trying to go_

(Strange Days, © Matthew Good Band, 1999)

 

_Sherlock is dreaming._

_He is in a dark alley. The brick walls of the surrounding buildings are black and greasy, and everything reeks of human waste. When he takes a step, his foot lands in something soft and he skids a bit. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement, but when he turns to look at it, all he sees is an emaciated girl lying in a shallow recess. She can’t possibly have moved; she looks like she’s been dead for days. When he turns his head, he sees other wasted figures, some alone, some tangled together, strewn throughout the alley. There’s a rubbish skip slightly ahead to his right, and a doorway even further ahead to his left. Sherlock frowns; that doorway is important. There’s something there he wants, needs. Moving carefully to avoid the sickening filth, he approaches the door carefully. There’s a figure there, male by its shadow, and Sherlock knows he must speak to this person._

_When he reaches the doorway, the man hidden there smiles at him, all sharp teeth and black gums. “I have what you need,” he says in a raspy voice. Sherlock puts his hand out._

_“Give it to me, then.”_

_The man puts his hand in the pocket of his grubby jacket. “Were you followed? What’s that?” And when Sherlock turns to look, the man pulls something hard out his pocket and swings it wide, catching Sherlock on the side of the head just above the ear. “Fucking idiot,” he hears as the world explodes in colour and the dream changes around him._

_He blinks; it’s a different alley, or is it the same? It doesn’t matter; so many back alleys in London look the same. This time, he’s removed from the action, and he’s watching himself argue with another oily dealer._

_“Look, I have the money, do you have it or not?”_

_“Oh, I got it, alright, but your money’s no good here, mate.”_

_Sherlock watches himself frown. “I don’t understand.”_

_He watches the dealer lick his lips as he aggressively stares into Sherlock’s eyes. “I think you do, mate,” he drawls, and then takes a step back so he can look Sherlock up and down as he licks his lips again. “I think you understand exactly what I want.”_

_Dream Sherlock recoils, his lips pinching shut in disgust. “Forget it,” he says hotly. “That was not our deal. There are plenty more out there who will just take the money.” And he strides away, towards where real Sherlock is watching. As he stalks past, his coat flares out like wings and the scene changes again._

_Sherlock’s heart is pounding, the rate much faster than it should be. He is so high he can feel the neurons firing in his brain. His hearing is much more acute than normal; he swears he can hear mould growing on the loaf of bread on the kitchen table. He’s willing to bet that if he looked closely, he could see it growing, too._

_He can’t remember the last time he felt this awake, this ALIVE. He’s scrolled through and solved six cases from his website in an hour, and there are still three waiting for him. Why, why did he ever stop doing this? This is magnificent! He feels so aware, his molecules are buzzing as the electrons orbit the protons and neutrons, so many molecules in the human body, he could count them if he wanted to._

_Still, there’s something nagging at him. He has to remember something, something important, something amazing…_

_“Sherlock?” And his high suddenly comes crashing down as he turns to the voice at the door._

_“John.”_

_As more images flash by, more alleys, more highs, more sitting rooms, more 221Bs, Sherlock sinks deeper into sleep, deeper and deeper until he is below his dreams and they float away._

_~~_

John Watson has been in many hospital rooms in his life, both as a patient and as a doctor. They’re not new to him, there’s nothing odd, nothing unusual. The floor tiles, the railed bed, the machines, the beeping, none of this is strange. Even as a patient John can assess his surroundings, read the monitors, flip through his chart, and predict the course of treatment the staff will take.

And yet, when he sees Sherlock lying there, still and white, he doesn’t know what to do. He only has eyes for the small figure lying on its back, covered with a sheet and blanket, mask affixed to its face. It really could be anyone lying there, if John didn’t know, didn’t  _feel_  in his guts that this is Sherlock, his Sherlock.

The door slips from his nerveless fingers and when it clicks shut, it pulls him from his reverie. Suddenly Dr. Watson wakes up, and John can walk to the bed, can take stock of what exactly is happening here.

He is extremely relieved to see that the detective has not had to be intubated completely. Electrode wires snake under the front of his gown, and a pulse oximetry sensor is on his index finger. The field IV has been switched out to a proper port on the back of his right wrist; John can see where they tried to insert it on the left, like he did, but couldn’t get a good vein.

Sherlock himself is whiter than John’s ever seen him. His black curls stand out starkly against his forehead, and his eyes have deep purple bruises under them. His right hand, not tucked under the covers because of the IV lines, is resting on his stomach. John can’t believe how thin and frail it looks: the blue veins are lying thickly on top of the fragile metacarpals. Sherlock’s long fingers, the fingers he uses to lightly hold his bow, are twitching slightly.

John doesn’t know how long he stares at Sherlock, just standing there, watching his chest move up and down with every breath. The hiss of the ventilator and the steady beep of the monitor are the only sounds in the room.

He sits down heavily in the hard plastic chair beside the bed, and reaches over to take Sherlock’s thin, white hand in his strong, tan one. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he whispers. “What did you do?”

And with that, with that whisper, the tightness in his chest that he didn’t even realize was there is released, and hot tears begin to drip down his face, splashing his other hand, the hand with a death grip on the rail of the bed.

He doesn’t know how long he cries silently, but he’s still crying when the door opens. Swiping at his eyes hastily, he stands up to see a dark-haired woman in a white coat standing in the doorway. The look she is giving him is equal parts sympathy and professional assessment.

“Dr. Watson? I’m Dr. Steele, general medicine. I’m in charge of Mr. Holmes’ care.” She enters the room completely, accompanied by a nurse in yellow scrubs, and offers her hand. John wipes his eyes again.

“John Watson, yeah,” he answers, shaking briefly. He lets go of her hand, and she picks up Sherlock’s chart from the end of the bed.

“Mr. Holmes is a very lucky man, Dr. Watson. It was close there, for a bit, but we gave him another shot of Naloxone and got him stabilized. I was very glad to see his breathing improve; we would have intubated completely, otherwise. Would you like to see his chart?”

John takes it with his free hand and reads it through quickly. As Dr. Steele said, it was a bit touch and go, for a while, but Sherlock has now had three doses of the opioid antagonist and seems to be responding well. John notes that blood was drawn, but then sucks in his breath sharply. He stares at the other doctor, who gives him a sympathetic look and glances briefly at his hand, still gently grasping Sherlock’s.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson. You’re going to have to have a serious conversation with Mr. Holmes when he comes around. I understand the two of you are partners? In… every sense of the word?” When John nods mutely, she smiles quickly, a ghost of a smile. It reminds him of Sherlock. “We may need some blood from you as well, in that case. But let’s not get too far ahead.” She motions to the nurse behind her, who, John just notices, is carrying a stainless steel tray with a syringe. “We’re going to give him another dose of Naloxone. I’m sure you know it usually takes multiple shots before the heroin is completely metabolized? We’re hoping fourth time’s the charm. You can continue to hold his hand, if you’d like.” She nods, and the nurse injects the syringe into Sherlock’s IV. “If this one works, we’ll know in a few seconds.” She looks at her watch.

The seconds tick by like years, and Dr. Steele’s saying, “Well, we’ll try again in a bit,” when Sherlock’s eyes fly open and his entire body begins to shake. He is gasping loudly and his hand locks around John’s like a vise.

Dr. Steele is immediately all business. She and the nurse shoulder John out of the way, and she quickly turns Sherlock on his side while the nurse gets a kidney dish and holds it by Sherlock’s face. “This is good, this is what we want,” the dark-haired doctor says quickly as Sherlock begins heaving and choking. She pulls the mask off and drops it behind the detective. “The body knows it’s been invaded, it’s purging itself of everything. It isn’t pretty, but it’s what I like to see.” She looks at John sharply. “Are you familiar with heroin withdrawal, Doctor?”

John nods. “I was in Afghanistan, I saw my share.”

“Then you know what to expect? Like I said, it isn’t pretty, and as he’s your partner—"

John cuts her off. “I know what it’s about. I need to be here for him.”

She gives him a searching look, and then nods, apparently satisfied with what she sees. “Good. And you have privileges at this hospital?” When he answers affirmatively, she gives him a tight smile. “Even better. Right then, it looks like the party’s starting.”

Beads of sweat have popped out on Sherlock’s face, and John moves back into place. He takes Sherlock’s hand with one of his and uses the other to wipe the detective’s forehead. Sherlock’s eyes are bloodshot, but the bright blue irises are staring into John’s eyes like lasers. “Let it out, Sherlock,” he says softly. “Let go.” And he feels a twist in his guts as he remembers the last time he said that, under very different circumstances.

_(“God, John, I’m so close, but I can’t, I can’t…”_

_“Let go, Sherlock. I’ve got you, let go.”)_

The silent nurse appears at John’s elbow and hands him a towel; he takes it gratefully and uses it to wipe Sherlock’s face. He pulls it away just as the detective starts vomiting.

~~

The withdrawal symptoms last for seventeen hours. John is present for all of them.

He had seen heroin withdrawal before, in the military. As Dr. Steele said, it isn’t pretty. The patient shakes violently, and is often completely drenched in cold sweat. He vomits and voids his bowels repeatedly. His legs twitch constantly and cramp up painfully. He shivers, and his heart rate jumps dramatically.

John watches as all of this affects Sherlock over the course of most of a day. He holds his hands while he shakes, cleans up his diarrhea, and wipes his face clean again and again. His stomach feels like it’s consuming itself, it’s been so long since he’s eaten, but he doesn’t consider leaving Sherlock for a second. Dr. Steele is in and out (she has other patients, after all), but she spends more than half the time Sherlock’s in withdrawal with them.

Finally, the worst seems to be over. Sherlock is resting, not comfortably, but resting nonetheless, shaking and twitchy but no longer sick and vomiting. The St. Bart’s doctor motions John over to a quiet corner of the room with a tilt of her head.

“Do you know how long he was using heroin? We need to decide on a long-term course of treatment, here.”

John thinks back. “I don’t think it was long at all… that might have been the only time. He was a lot more...” He searches for the word. “Manic,” is all he can come up with.

She nods and makes a note on the chart. “He has a history of cocaine abuse?”

“Yes, but from years ago. I don’t think he’s used that in ten years? Maybe more, I’d have to talk to his brother to be sure.”

She makes another note. “I see. But based on his behaviour from the last few weeks, you think he may have been using again?”

John rubs his eyes; he’s exhausted. “I’m starting to think so, yeah.” He laces his fingers on the back of his head and pulls gently to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. “God, how did I miss this? I mean, I’m not observant like he is,” and he looks over at the sleeping figure. “But I should have seen this! I’m a doctor, for fuck’s sake!” When her eyes crinkle, he flushes. “Sorry. That just slipped out.”

The doctor waves a slim hand holding a pen. “It’s fine, Dr. Watson.”

“Please, John.”

She gives a small smile. “Very well, then, Catherine. But really, it’s fine. My dad drove lorries for forty years and always had his mates around. I’ve heard worse, believe me.” Her smile fades and her face is serious. “I need to know what we’re dealing with here, before I can prescribe treatment. We’ve administered a dose of methadone, but if he’s not a long-term heroin abuser, I’m reluctant to prescribe an opiate, especially with his history of cocaine abuse.  He’s a candidate for rehab and therapy, so I’m inclined to go that way. What’s your opinion?”

John turns to look at Sherlock, curled up in his hospital bed. He looks so small and breakable, a marked contrast from the focused, arrogant detective. “I don’t know if he’d go, to be honest. Mycroft – his brother – told me the last time wasn’t exactly successful.”

“What brought him around last time?”

“The work.” John turns back to look at Catherine; she seems interested. “He’s a detective, you know. Brilliant, he sees everyone, everything. If he were awake and himself, he could tell you your whole life just from the way you’re standing here, talking to me. He was given a choice, as I understand it: he could either get clean and do the work, or not. And he chose the work.” He rubs his eyes again. “I don’t know if it’s enough, this time.”

“And what about you?”

John is startled into taking his hands from his eyes. “What about me?”

“You’re his partner. His first, from what I understand. Would he get clean for you?” Her voice is soft, and her eyes are steady on his. He blinks first, breaking her gaze.

“I don’t know. I mean, I hope he would, I think he would, but I really, I really don’t know.”

“He cares about you; I could see it when he woke up, the way he looked at you. And I’ve spoken with your Detective Inspector. Lestrade? Yes, that was the name. He said Sherlock’s in love with you. Don’t you think he is?”

“Jesus, I don’t know! I mean—" He yanks the chart from her hand. “I thought he did, love me, I mean, but now I find out he’s out buying drugs and putting himself at risk, and you want my blood too, is that love, is it?” He’s aware that his voice is a lot louder than it should be, and she’s looking over his shoulder and frowning. His heart sinks into his stomach when he hears a raspy voice.

“John.”

He can’t turn around to look at Sherlock, he just can’t. It doesn’t stop Sherlock from addressing him.

“Look at me, please turn around.”

There’s nothing in his stomach, he hasn’t eaten in nearly thirty hours, but that doesn’t stop John from rushing to the tiny bathroom in the corner, locking the door, and retching over the toilet for ten minutes.

~~

John wipes his mouth and stares at himself in the mirror; he looks closer to fifty, not forty. The stress of being awake, of not eating, and of caring for Sherlock is all over his face. He sighs and splashes water on his face, scrubbing until the skin is pink and irritated.

When he exits the bathroom, Catherine Steele is waiting for him. She is holding Sherlock’s chart again and she looks grim.

“John, I think we’re going to want some blood from you after all.” His heart sinks in his stomach as he sinks into a chair.

“Right. What are you looking for?”

She flips a page in the chart, and then snaps the metal cover shut. “Sherlock’s blood work came back. He’s tested positive for Hep. B.”

_This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. I’m going crazy, this is a dream, Sherlock’s not in the hospital and I’m not being told I’m at risk for Hepatitis._

He takes a deep breath and nods, then holds out his arm and makes a fist. The quiet nurse comes forward with a rubber ligature. She performs the draw quickly and efficiently, then gives him a cotton ball as she snaps off the tourniquet. She disposes of the sharp and quietly leaves the room with the samples.

Catherine rubs her eyes and sighs. “I’m sorry, John. You’re going to have a difficult conversation when he wakes up.”

“Any idea how he got it?”

She shakes her head, and his guts tighten. For the first time in his life, he finds himself wishing that Sherlock was less than scrupulous in his injection habits, but having seen the little leather case Sherlock doesn’t think he knows about, he’s almost certain he’s wrong. The thought makes him want to throw up again.

“We’ll get the results as quickly as we can. Is it possible you’re at risk, John?”

John frowns. Aside from those two quick wanks in the shower, he and Sherlock were barely intimate at all during the last three weeks… but something’s nagging at him…

His heart stops.

One morning, when he was still dead to the world from having worked fourteen hours the day before, Sherlock woke him with a sleepy hand job. He doesn’t remember all the details, but he does remember sliding under the covers to return the favour with his mouth. He remembers swallowing tiredly, and then crawling back up to snuggle in Sherlock’s arms to sleep for another hour.

“Oh, God.”

The other doctor sighs. “Look, I think you, his brother, and I need to sit down to figure out a plan. Can we set a time?”

John pulls his phone from his pocket.

**_Sherlock’s MD wants a meeting. Are you free? JW_ **

The answer comes back immediately.

**_15 minutes. MH_ **

He snaps the phone shut and looks at her. “Are you free in fifteen?” She nods. “Is there a quiet place?”

“Conference room, third floor.”

He texts the information to Mycroft. “Lead the way.”

~~

They’re all sitting around the table, looking at each other but not speaking. John clears his throat.

“Mycroft, have your people turned anything up?”

The older man nods. “Of course, John. It was remiss of me not to have contacted you earlier, but I understand you rather had your hands full. Yes, we do have some results. The substance in the spoon and in the hypodermic was heroin… a rather inferior sample, only twenty-three percent pure, diluted with paracetamol and caffeine. The chemical analysis indicates the heroin originated in Thailand.” His mouth twists. “Even doing something destructive, Sherlock has managed to lead us to an international drug ring. So much potential there, wasted.” He fiddles with his phone, and drops it on the table. “We were unable to locate the young man you saw outside before you found Sherlock, but DI Lestrade is keeping me informed of the, shall we say, reorganization of the narcotics hierarchy in London and assures me he will contact us if the young man is found, regardless of his condition.”

“Was there anything else on the syringe? Anything not… heroin-related?” John cannot bring himself to articulate his fears over the Hepatitis B to Mycroft, but he cannot let go of the hope that Sherlock contracted it through unsanitary conditions and not some other way.

Mycroft frowns. “My people only examined the heroin. What else should we be looking for?”

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Thankfully, Catherine comes to his rescue.

“Mr. Holmes, we’re still waiting on some bloodwork, but we just want to be certain that there were no other contaminants on the needle itself. We can run the tests here, if you prefer?”

“No, no, we’ll take care of it. We still have everything.” Mycroft sends a quick text and returns his phone to the table. “Have you received any results so far?”

The brunette opens Sherlock’s chart. “So far, we have found traces of cocaine in his blood, but minimal amounts, which suggest he hasn’t used that within the last week. The primary finding was of heroin use, but as I said, we’re still waiting on results. We would like to be certain your brother isn’t at risk for any blood-borne diseases with which he may have come into contact.” Her voice is professional, neutral, but Mycroft seems to understand. He looks at John briefly, and John is left with the sense that Mycroft knows he’s keeping something back.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, at this point we need to come up with a treatment plan for Sherlock. My first instinct is to recommend rehabilitation with therapy, but both of you have mentioned that Sherlock would most likely respond unfavourably. Mr. Holmes, do you have any suggestions?”

Mycroft shifts in his chair; if it were anyone else, John would have said they looked uncomfortable, but Mycroft makes it appear casual and intentional. “Dr. Steele, how Sherlock feels about rehab is irrelevant. If it is the best choice for him, he will go. His last rehabilitation facility has indicated that they would consider taking him as a patient again.” The  _“in exchange for a sizeable donation”_  is left unsaid, but it hangs in the air.

Catherine frowns as she makes a note. She doesn’t seem impressed by Mycroft’s proclamation. “Dr. Watson? Your thoughts?”

John sighs. “I think Mycroft’s right. I know Sherlock will hate rehab, but if he has to go, then he has to go. End of story.”

All of them are lost in their thoughts for a few minutes; none of them seem particularly comfortable with this course of action.

Finally, Mycroft clears his throat. “Dr. Steele, if you do recommend a stay in rehabilitation, how long would the course of treatment last?”

“Well, I’d like a chance to speak with Sherlock, find out more about his recent history with drugs, but I would estimate forty-five to sixty days.”

“Then I would like to propose a compromise, assuming Dr. Watson is in agreement. I suggest we propose to Sherlock that he remain in a treatment facility for no fewer than thirty days, and then release him to the care and supervision of Dr. Watson. It will be made clear to Sherlock that if he relapses, or is in any way tempted to relapse, he will immediately be returned to the facility for another extended period of time, to be determined by the three of us.” He turns to John. “Dr. Watson, what are your thoughts?”

John understands that by addressing him as Doctor, Mycroft is appealing to his professionalism and training. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Mycroft, I don’t know. As Sherlock’s partner, I don’t think it’s ethical for me to assume his medical care. And I’m not a narcotics treatment specialist.” John feels horrible; he knows it sounds like he’s trying to foist off Sherlock’s care on someone else, but he still has some things to discuss with his partner and he’s unwilling to commit to anything…

And now he hates himself for being so weak.

If Mycroft has noticed his struggle, he isn’t commenting. “Dr. Watson, your ethics do you credit. But if I may speak frankly, there is no one who I would trust more looking after Sherlock. You may not be aware of this, John…” John does not miss the change in his mode of address. “My brother. He may not demonstrate it, but you are the one person in his life for whom he would do anything. If he has a choice between you and anything else, he will choose you, every time.”

John catches himself thinking back to what Lestrade said when Sherlock was brought in, and he feels lower than a snake for his earlier thoughts.

_“I have to think, now that he has someone to come back to, and come back for, he’ll come back.”_

Dr. Steele  _ahem_ ’s softly to get their attention. “Gentlemen, with all due respect, are thirty days long enough for Sherlock to remain in treatment? If I prescribe methadone, which I am still considering in this situation, then the question becomes, how long will he need to come off of that?”

“I’m not actually sure methadone is warranted in this case, Dr. Steele,” John says slowly. “To be honest, I don’t think Sherlock’s a heroin addict. Mycroft, did he use it before?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “His drug of choice has always been cocaine. He tried morphine a few times, but he said he didn’t care for it, it slowed down his mental acuity. Quite frankly, I’m very surprised he tried heroin. I’m very much looking forward to learning the reasons behind it.”

John nods. “Then in this case, I think maybe methadone may not be the correct course of treatment here. I understand your reasoning,” he says, putting up a hand to cut Catherine off. She’s persistent; he’ll give her that. “But Sherlock’s not a heroin addict. I’m not saying no, completely, and if he needs it I’ll administer it myself. But right now, the thought of giving Sherlock more narcotics makes me very uncomfortable.”

Catherine is frowning. “I don’t like it, John. I respect what you and Mr. Holmes are saying, but in my professional judgment, Sherlock needs to be in treatment for longer than a month, especially if methadone is warranted.”

“Dr. Steele, I assure you, your concerns are valid,” Mycroft says smoothly, a sign the meeting is wrapping up. “But I have been here before, more times than I wish to remember. I sincerely think that, if Dr. Watson is amenable, we can convince Sherlock that it is in his best interests to accept our proposal. If not…” He shrugs. “Then we will make it clear that he will undergo treatment at a facility of our choice, without our intervention.”

John shudders of the thought of Sherlock locked away with genuine addicts, enduring group therapy and forced injections of methadone or buprenorphine. It breaks his heart.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m on board.”

Mycroft face relaxes minutely in what can only be called relief. “Very good. I’ll call the facility to confirm that Sherlock will be a patient there again; Dr. Steele, please contact me when Sherlock is well enough to be moved.”

She makes a few notes on the chart. “Gentlemen, with any luck we’ll have him admitted there in the next few days. Just give us some time to get the bloodwork back and observe him to make sure he’s progressing.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Dr. Steele’s nurse sticks her head in. “He’s awake and asking for Dr. Watson, if you’re available?”

John stands. “Well. Keep me posted on the results from the syringe, Mycroft, and we’ll talk again soon, I’m sure.” He shakes hands with Sherlock’s brother and doctor. “Thank you for your time.”

He leaves the conference room, feeling for all the world like he’s walking to the firing squad.

~~

Sherlock is exhausted. His whole body feels wrung out, and he can’t stop shaking. The IV in his wrist is itchy and the oxygen flowing through the mask is cold on his face. But nothing he is feeling physically compares to the mental upset he felt when he woke up and John wasn’t there.

He must have been shouting, because immediately a small nurse in yellow scrubs is there, gripping his shoulders and speaking calmly. “Mr. Holmes? Deep breaths please, sir.”

He can’t take deep breaths, all he can do is gasp. “John… John…”

The nurse nods while still holding him steady. “He’s just stepped out for a moment, Mr. Holmes. I can get him for you, but I need you to breathe. Can you do that?”

Panicked, eyes wide, Sherlock nods and gulps in air. The oxygen flow is helping him concentrate on his breathing.  _John… must be calm for John._

She removes her hands and, using a clean cloth from his bedside table, wipes his face. “Good, Mr. Holmes, thank you. Can you keep breathing like that for me? Nice and deep, and I’ll just go and get Dr. Watson for you. Stay calm while I’m gone, please, Dr. Watson won’t like to see you so agitated. He’s been here since they brought you in, you know.”

Sherlock closes his eyes.  _He saw me like this, but he stayed._  He opens them again when the nurse gives his shoulder a little shake.

“Still with me?” When he nods, she smiles. “I’ll be right back with Dr. Watson. Just keep breathing, there’s a good lad.” And she slips silently from the room.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes.  _John. John is here, he’s still here, he stayed, he stayed with me. He’s seen me at my absolute worst and he’s still here. Thank God for him, for my John._

When he opens his eyes, John is sitting beside the bed.

He looks so sad, Sherlock’s heart crumples in his chest.

~~

When John enters the room, Sherlock is curled on his side, facing away from the door. He considers turning around and leaving, but he can’t. He has to speak to Sherlock, find out what he was thinking, what actually happened.

He steels himself and walks towards the chair beside the bed. His feet are leaden and his hands are shaking, but that’s still Sherlock, his Sherlock, and he wants an explanation. More than that, he wants to know that Sherlock loves him, and would never risk that love.

He nearly gasps aloud when Sherlock opens his eyes. They’re red and exhausted, but the irises are so bright, he remembers when the Naloxone dose woke him up and his blue eyes stared into his, wide, unblinking, and he remembered the first time the detective fixed those eyes on him in the lab in this very hospital, and his whole life changed.

He reaches out to take Sherlock’s hand, and realizes he has no idea what to say, so they just stare at each other for an eternity.

Finally John can’t bear it. He brushes Sherlock’s damp hair off his forehead; the skin is clammy. “You’re back,” he says softly.

“More or less.” Sherlock’s voice is raspy and painful.

“Sherlock…” John shudders and puts his head down on his arm, still grasping the cold, white hand. If he looks at Sherlock, he’s going to cry and not stop. “What did you do? What were you thinking?”

Through his hand on Sherlock’s forehead, he feels him frown. “I was—"

And suddenly John knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say, and something snaps in his chest. He drops Sherlock’s hand and pushes himself away from the bed; the chair clatters to the floor behind him. “Don’t say it! Don’t, Sherlock! Because I swear to God, if you tell me you did this because you were  _bored_ , so help me…” He’s shaking with anger, and with relief, but most of all he’s offended. As soon as he identifies the feeling the tension eases, but the shaking doesn’t stop. “For fuck’s sake, you were, weren’t you? That’s what you were going to say, you were bored and you just jumped in, without thinking of anything else! I mean, God, Sherlock, did you even stop to consider what might happen? You could have died, you came damn close, you know! And did you even think of what would have happened to me if you’d died? Did you even think about me  _at all_?” He’s panting with rage now, his whole body is shaking, and it’s taking everything he has not to be sick again. Through it all, Sherlock’s eyes are tracking him as he pours out everything he’s wanted to say since August twenty-eighth. “And your brother, and Lestrade, and everyone? Please, Sherlock, tell me what you were thinking! It’s a mystery to me because  _I’m not fucking Sherlock Holmes_!” He shrieks out the last words, and is simultaneously gratified and horrified to see the man in the bed flinch. Snarling with rage, he yanks the chair from the floor, sets it down with a clatter of metal legs and drops into it. His anger has burned out and now he just feels hollow and sad.

“I wasn’t bored, John. I wasn’t going to say I was bored.”

John stares dully at the floor in from of him. “Then why, Sherlock?”

“I was… I don’t know.”

This admission makes John lift his head to look at Sherlock. “You don’t know? You don’t know what you were thinking? Jesus, what are you, twelve? You’re a grown man, Sherlock, you never do things without a reason, even if that reason is as stupid as boredom! No.” He shakes his head stubbornly. “I won’t accept that. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Sherlock wipes his face with the cloth the nurse left him. His brain is sluggish and he still can’t stop shaking. “I can’t explain, John. I can’t think right now, my head hurts.” He frowns; he isn’t doing well, he knows. “I wasn’t bored, though. I know that. I’m not stupid, John.”

“Really?” John shoots back. “Because I found you in the flat with a damn needle sticking out of your arm! If that’s not stupid, then I don’t know what is!”

Sherlock sighs; he is so tired, and his brain just won’t clear the fog, but this is so much more important than that. He opens his mouth, but before he can continue, John cuts him off.

“How did you get Hepatitis B, Sherlock?”

“What?” Sherlock sounds genuinely shocked. “What are you talking about?”

John scrubs at his face with his sleeve. “Your bloodwork came back and you tested positive for Hep B. I need to know how you got it.” In his heart, he knows the answer, but he needs to hear it.

Sherlock frowns, and then his face turns even whiter, if possible. “Oh my God. John.”

John can’t wait to hear the rest; the words come tumbling out of him, even as his brain tries to put the brakes on. “Let me guess: it was some dealer, you were high, you didn’t know what you were doing, is that it? You tried to pay; or was it, you didn’t have the money, but that was okay, because there are other ways to buy drugs, aren’t there, Sherlock?” He’s yelling again, but he doesn’t care who hears him. “So what was it, Sherlock? Did you let him fuck you, or did you just suck him off?”

“John,” Sherlock whispers. He reaches out to take John’s hand, just to have it jerked away.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you fucking touch me, Sherlock! God, how could you! You put yourself at risk, so badly, you put both of us at risk! Did you even think about that at all when I was swallowing you down last week?” When there’s no answer, he laughs mirthlessly. “I didn’t think so. God, Sherlock, I can’t even look at you right now! All I see is some junkie, putting his hands on you, and you, your mouth…” He puts both hands over his face and sobs loudly. Tears are sliding down Sherlock’s face, but he doesn’t blink or wipe them away; he can’t stop looking at John, his John, whose heart he just broke.

They cry, one loudly, one silently, for a long time. Finally, John sniffles and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. The jumper is revolting; he’s been wearing it for three days. He pulls out his phone.

“I’m texting your brother,” he says hoarsely. “He has a treatment plan in place for you. I suggest you take it, because if you don’t, then I…” He takes a deep breath; how did they get here? How did it come down to this? “…If you don’t, then the last time you see me will be now, this second. Because I love you so much, Sherlock, with all my heart, but I can’t stay to see you self-destruct.” He presses a button on his mobile, and it chirps almost immediately. “Mycroft will be here in twenty minutes. Sherlock, make the right decision, here.” He yanks the door of the room open and looks over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the hall. Sherlock…” He can’t finish this sentence; he can’t say goodbye, if this is goodbye.

Sherlock watches John walk out of the room. He presses his eyes closed.

 _John_...

The click of the door echoes like the clanging of a prison in his ears.

 

_John._

Click [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/matthewgoodband/strangedays.html) to listen to Strange Days by Matthew Good Band.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following websites were helpful while writing this:  
> http://www.cph.org.uk/showPublication.aspx?pubid=632  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suboxone  
> http://www.camh.net/About_Addiction_Mental_Health/Drug_and_Addiction_Information/methadone_dyk.html


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair amount of dialogue here, but I had to get it out of the way. A little shorter than the last one, but a natural stopping point, I think. Sorry for the angst. I completely invented the rehab centre; it may exist, for all I know.

_I tremble_

_They’re gonna eat me alive_

_If I stumble_

_They’re gonna eat me alive_

_Can you hear my heart_

_Beating like a hammer_

_Beating like a hammer_

_Help I’m alive_

_My heart keeps beating like a hammer…_

(Help I’m Alive, © Metric, 2008)

 

As the door clicks shut behind John, Sherlock stays curled on his side, tears sliding down his face, as he stares at John’s chair, now upended on the floor.

His arrogance and confidence have completely left him, and exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him, but he can’t let it, he can’t. He knows John is out in the hall, his heart breaking, and he, Sherlock, is the one who sent him there.

 _Logic. Logic is what’s needed here._ But there is no solace in logic, now. Sherlock is all but certain he can hear John’s wracking sobs through the hospital room’s door.

“John,” he whispers. “John.”

But of course John doesn’t come.

Before he slips into a fitful sleep, his last thought is of his army doctor, and the look on his face as he walked out the door.

~~

John is sitting in the hallway, back against the wall. His body is cramped with shuddering sobs, his jumper is snotty, and he could care less.

_How could he._

_HOW COULD HE._

There are no words. John thought he’d had his heart broken before – walking in on his university girlfriend in bed with her chemistry tutor comes to mind – but now he knows, that was nothing. That was a paper cut compared with this gaping stab wound.

A handkerchief appears in front of his face; he barely has time to note it’s robin’s-egg blue before he snatches it and starts wiping his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John.”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I am more sorry than you can possibly know.” Mycroft crouches beside him, his face impassive as always, but through his tears, John can see desperation and anguish in his eyes. “Did he have any explanation for his behaviour?”

John inhales loudly through his plugged nose and swallows. “No. Just that he wasn’t bored.”

Mycroft hands him another handkerchief. “John, no one knows better than I how destructive he can be, both on himself and on his surroundings, when boredom strikes him. I will never defend him when he does something this…” He pauses, searching for the words.

“Fucked up?” John manages. Mycroft’s smile is thin.

“Even so.” He squeezes John’s elbow, an action which would have completely thrown John had he not been such a mess. “I need to discuss the terms of his recovery with him. Please join us if you feel you can, but by all means, you are under no obligation.” He rises in one smooth motion, and looks down at the broken man at his feet. “He will enter rehab, John, you have my word.” And he turns and pushes the door open to Sherlock’s room.

John doesn’t know how long he sits against the wall, scrubbing at his face with the soiled handkerchiefs, but he feels sufficiently recovered to look up when Catherine Steele slides down the wall to sit beside him. He attempts a watery smile, but he can feel it’s just a rictus on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re the not the first person I’ve seen in this position, John. It’s horrible, there’s no two ways about it.” She takes his hand and squeezes gently. “I’m guessing you had that conversation?”

“Yeah.” His eyes feel full of sand and his leg aches from sitting on the floor for so long. “It was pretty fucking horrible.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, your blood work came back negative for Hepatitis.”

“Hah. Not much comfort, but one less thing to worry about, I guess.” He stares at his hands in his lap; they’re shaking, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he ate.

“John, you may think it’s none of my business, but did he tell you how he contracted the Hep?”

John snorts. “Some dealer… he traded favours instead of cash.”

“Did he actually say those words, John? Or did you just jump to conclusions?”

“He…” John frowns, thinking back. It’s blurry, the yelling, the crying, Sherlock lying in bed shaking, but he can remember it. “No. He said “Oh my God”, and I…” The realization hits like a wave and suddenly he can’t stop trembling. “Oh my God. I just started yelling. He didn’t say anything.”

She nods. “Perfectly understandable. In these situations, many people assume the worst, and they often convince themselves they’ve heard it. But I strongly suggest you ask him again, John, and this time, wait for the answer.” She sounds quiet and understanding, but there’s an odd note of confidence in her voice. John looks at her suspiciously.

“Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”

She shakes her head. “You’re listed as his emergency contact and next of kin—“ But John interrupts her.

“ _I’m_ the next of kin? What about his brother?”

“When we pulled his file from his last visit – for treatment of a broken ankle – you were listed as next of kin.”

John closes his eyes. He remembers the ankle; Sherlock chasing a suspect along the banks of the Thames, stepping in a hole, hobbling to catch up after John tackled the fleeing man, the x-rays, the cast, the complaining for eight weeks. John had seriously considered moving in with Harry for a brief respite, he’d been that desperate to get away from Sherlock.

 _Until now_ , his brain amends. But when the thought enters his mind, his heart hurries to correct it. He gave Sherlock an ultimatum, and he meant it, but the thought of actually leaving Sherlock, packing his things, finding a new place to live, starting his life over again, sends shooting pains into his body until he feels like he’s going to pass out.

“Here.” Catherine hands him a pudding cup and a spoon. “Disgusting, I know, but better than nothing. A quick hit of sugar until you can eat a proper meal. But yes, even though you’re the next of kin, he is still my patient, and while I was comfortable sharing  the results of his blood work, partly because I felt you may have been at risk, there are some things that still fall under the heading of doctor-patient confidentiality. Just ask him, and listen to his answer.” She chuckles softly at the face John makes with his first taste of pudding. “I sometimes think hospital food is terrible on purpose – it encourages the patients to get well faster so they can go home and eat real food.” She stands and pulls John to his feet; he can’t help but observe she’s surprisingly strong. “He’s awake now,” she says, peering through the window. She rubs his upper arm reassuringly. “Please, just ask him.” She looks at him searchingly, then walks away.

John swallows the last of the horrendous pudding and tosses the empty container in a bin. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door to Sherlock’s room open.

Mycroft has righted the plastic chair and is sitting close to Sherlock’s bed. He’s hunched over, his face close to his brother’s, his hands clasped in his lap. He’s speaking softly, but there’s a hint of steel in his voice. John slips quietly into the tiny bathroom to wash his face, but leaves the door ajar.

“Sherlock, there is no debate. You will enter rehab therapy, you will stay there for the mandated time. Do not be difficult.”

“I will not.” Despite the extreme exhaustion and weakness in his voice, Sherlock sounds remarkably like himself. “This was a one-off. I’m not addicted to heroin, there is none in the flat, John can take care of me.”

“Your blood work showed cocaine in your system, Sherlock. You were clearly using it over a period of time, and recently, for it to still be present. I am aware there is none in the flat; Anthea texted twenty minutes ago to tell me the search was complete. And as for John taking care of you…” His voice rises in volume; he knows John’s in the bathroom. “What makes you think he wants to?”

There’s silence, and then Sherlock says in a subdued voice, “John loves me. He wouldn’t lock me away.”

“He may have loved you before, but that was before he learned of your reckless behaviour. Your sordid trading of favours in an alley was a complete betrayal of him, Sherlock. You did not see him in the hallway before I came in. I have seen many terrible things in my career, but I hope never to see a man in that sort of pain again in my lifetime. John Watson is a great man, Sherlock, and you are not worthy of his love. If you don’t pay attention and do as you’re told, you will lose him forever.” His tone is hard. In the bathroom, John shakes; he still loves Sherlock, of course he does, but Mycroft’s right, his behaviour was a betrayal, and he’s not sure if he can forgive it. A cold sweat breaks out on his body: _what if he can’t? What if he never forgives Sherlock?_ He shakes his head to clear it, but the next words are almost inaudible.

“I didn’t cheat on John.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft frowns.

“I didn’t cheat on John!” The words burst from Sherlock, and he slumps on his pillow. “If I do have Hepatitis B, it was not from… _that._ ” He spits the word out in derision. “I would never, ever betray him that way. Everything was acquired with money, my own money. I didn’t touch our joint account.”

“Then how do you explain the Hepatitis, Sherlock?” John steps from the bathroom. Mycroft’s eyes flick towards him; he sees a brief flash of approval. John walks around the bed to stand behind Mycroft. “Explain it to me, please; I need to hear it.”

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes; he keeps them closed as he speaks. “That day when you came home, I told you I’d looked into a case. It was the murder of Jamey Hannigan, my old dealer from my time in university. He’d been shot; by now, Lestrade should know that a new ring of Thai drug runners has moved into London. They’re eliminating the old guard, as it were.”

John can’t suppress a pang in his gut; Sherlock is so small in the bed, his suffering clear in his voice, but he’s still Sherlock.

“When I arrived, the alley was empty except for Hannigan’s lieutenant, standing over the body. He told me what had happened, and we both knew it was no use calling the police; really, as long as innocent bystanders don’t get in the middle, no one really cares if the herd of dealers thins out. He picked up Hannigan’s body and threw it in the skip.” He coughs weakly; John can see he’s flagging. “Before he closed the lid, we went through his pockets. He had three hits of cocaine, and one of heroin in them. I took them all.”

John’s heart is ice in his chest. “Are you telling me, that night, while we were at Angelo’s, you had two Schedule-A narcotics in your pocket?”

“Hid them before you got home.” His voice is very weak now. “Not an idiot.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” Mycroft’s voice is dry.

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Another weak cough. “The next day, when you were at work, Hanson - Hannigan’s lieutenant - came by the flat. We shot up the cocaine, for old times’ sake, he said.”

“Why, Sherlock?” John can hardly get the words out.

“It was… a way to face my demons. To be an addict… it’s a fight, every day, John. Some days are harder than others, and I couldn’t fight it any more. I thought… If I could do it once, just one more time, and walk away, I’d know it wasn’t an addiction any more. I would know I’d beaten it, and I’d won.” His grimace is painful on his thin face. “I should have known better.”

“And the Hepatitis?” John is determined to get an answer.

“The needle. Not mine; Hanson left it and I reused it.”

John is horrified. With the possible exception of using his body to buy the heroin, this is the worst thing Sherlock could have done. As an experienced drug user, he should have known better.

“You are extremely fortunate you didn’t finish with worse than Hepatitis.” Mycroft’s voice is tight. “You put yourself and John at risk, Sherlock.” He stands and pushes the plastic chair away from the bed. “As soon as you are able to be moved, you will be transported to Applewood, where you will remain for no less than thirty days. John will take an active role in your rehabilitation. At the end of the month, if he and the medical staff feel you have made sufficient progress, you will be released to his care and allowed to return home. You will not return to work unless he and I believe you can be trusted.”

“Fine.” Sherlock’s voice is practically non-existent.

Mycroft’s eyes are unreadable as he stares down at Sherlock, curled on his side, his eyes closed. He brushes the matted curls from the pale forehead and sighs. Then he turns to John. “Will you accompany me to the cafeteria? I believe we could both use a cup of tea.” At John’s unwilling look, he adds, “Agent Lynn is stationed outside the door again. He will call if there is any change. Please, John.”

~~

They are sitting in more hard plastic chairs, drinking what passes for tea, but is actually the colour and flavour of old dishwater. John grimaces and pushes his paper cup away.

“Do you believe what he said?”

Mycroft fiddles with his cup; his Blackberry is on the table in front of him. “I do, strangely enough. I think he honestly thought that he could try it once and not go back to his old ways.”

“How could he be so stupid?” John rubs his face; he’s been doing that a lot, lately. “For God’s sake, Mycroft! He’s an addict, he knows the risks!”

“He thought he could beat the odds.” The phone remains silent, but Mycroft checks it any way. “You must not blame yourself, John. He was hiding his drug use from me and our mother from the age of eighteen.”

“He overdosed once before, right?”

“Correct. Detective Inspector Lestrade found him that time. He saved Sherlock’s life.”

John pulls his tea back towards him. It may be crap, but it’s hot and it’s liquid. “And gave him the reason he needed to get clean, right? Sherlock told me that.” He adds a packet of sugar to the tea, which merely creates sludgy dishwater. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Dr. Steele gave me some pudding an hour ago, but…” He honestly can’t remember his last meal.

Mycroft looks at him closely, then picks up his phone and sends a text. “Anthea will see you home. You will have a proper meal, a shower, and a good sleep in your own bed. In the morning you will return here. I hope that by tomorrow evening or by the day after tomorrow at the latest, Sherlock will be strong enough to move to the facility and his treatment can begin.” When John tries to protest, he holds up a hand. “I insist, John. You are exhausted and you haven’t eaten in days. Agent Lynn will stay outside his room all night, and a car with a driver will be on standby in case he takes a turn for the worse and you need to return immediately.” John blanches at the phrase _a turn for the worse_ , but grips the table and breathes slowly to steady himself.

“What’s the facility like?”

“Applewood? It’s one of the top rehabilitation facilities in the UK. It’s located in a quiet, brick mansion just outside of London, and it’s very secure. The doctors and nurses are excellent. They did an admirable job with Sherlock last time, despite his difficulties.” The man in the grey wool fiddles with his phone. “As I’m sure you know, Sherlock is not the easiest of patients. He was vicious in his withdrawal, and once that subsided, he was not shy about letting the staff know his true feelings on his… captivity.” His eyes fill with an old pain, but he blinks it away. “DI Lestrade brought him a few cold cases to keep his mind busy, with the promise of more, and crime scene access, if he could stay clean for three months. It was a struggle, but he did it.” He stops talking when a huge yawn almost cracks John’s face in half. “Anthea is waiting for you upstairs. Please, go home and sleep.”

John’s too tired to argue. “You’ll call me if anything changes?”

“Agent Lynn has your number, and he’ll call you directly if there’s a problem. But you can’t be of any help to him unless you take care of yourself. I will meet you outside his room tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll speak with Dr. Steele and make a decision as to his transport. Until then, John.” The two men stand and throw their cups in the bin.

~~

As soon as John opens the sitting room door, he sees it.

The blue strip of silk from Sherlock’s dressing gown is lying on the floor next to the sofa where he dropped it after prying it from Sherlock’s teeth. There’s a dried saliva stain, and it’s wrinkled, both where his teeth were gripping it and where it was tied. John grits his own teeth and picks it up, running it gently through his fingers. He wonders about the best way to clean it, so Sherlock can wear the dressing gown in…

_Rehab._

John has been a doctor for a long time, and he’s sent people to rehab before. Harry did her own drying-out stint when he was nineteen and she was twenty-three; he vividly remembers visiting her in the drab, beige, concrete block, more like a prison than a place to get well. At time, he thought the only motivation one could possibly have to recover would be to escape the depressing place.

It just seems so odd to think of Sherlock, a man so dynamic, so energetic, so full of life, in a place filled with stoned, semi-comatose addicts.

He sighs and shakes his head wearily as he moves around the flat. The syringe is gone, and the drug paraphernalia Mycroft’s people found in the kitchen has been removed as well. He frowns; wasn’t Mycroft supposed to be checking the syringe? Now that Sherlock has told him he caught the Hepatitis from a used needle, there hardly seems to be a point to it, but the doctor in him needs confirmation. He sends a quick text.

**_Did the hypodermic test positive for Hepatitis B? JW_ **

**_Yes. He was honest with you. MH_ **

He tosses his phone on the sofa, the knot in his gut loosening a little. Sherlock’s behaviour was still reckless and unacceptable, but knowing he didn’t cheat on John makes him feel a little better.

He’s pouring a proper cup of tea and has pasta in a pot on the cooker when there’s a broken sob at the door of the kitchen that causes him to drop his spoon and turn quickly. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, John, is it true? Did he take the drugs again?” The landlady is twisting a ring on her finger as she stares at him, grey-faced. John immediately gets out another cup and pours more tea. He takes her elbow, sits her in his armchair and hands her the mug.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Hudson. He’s at St. Bart’s now, and we’re hoping to move him to a rehab facility tomorrow or the next day.” He squeezes her thin, bony hand gently. “I’m sorry.”

She wipes her eyes and takes a sip of her tea. “I don’t know, John. I just don’t know. How did we lose our dear boy?”

“He’s very good at hiding, I’m afraid. I’ve been meeting with his brother quite a bit, and he’s told me a lot about the last time this happened. You know Sherlock; if he doesn’t want people to know, they don’t know.”

“But we’re meant to know him better than anyone!”

John sags against her from his perch on the arm of the chair. “I know. I thought I would know, that I would see.” He closes his eyes. “I thought we were fine.”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice is indignant. “John Watson, you cannot possibly think this had anything to do with you! You’re the best thing to happen to that boy; why, since you moved in, he’s been happier than I’ve ever seen him!”

He sighs; his eyes won’t open. “I don’t know. He said he just tried it to see if he could, just once, and walk away. But I’ve been working so much… I wasn’t there for him.”

There’s a sharp pinch to his arm, he drags his eyes open to see the older woman glaring at him. “John, you and I both know that if Sherlock wants something, he will get his way! If he was determined to do this, there was nothing you or I could have done to stop him. You cannot blame yourself!”

“Then how come I do?” John says hotly, jumping from the chair; Mrs. Hudson rises nervously, alarmed. His last reserve of adrenaline has kicked in. “Everyone keeps _saying_ that, that’s it’s not my fault, I couldn’t have known, but he’s mine, Mrs. Hudson, he’s my whole life! It’s my job to know, I’m supposed to protect him! Even from himself, if I have to!” The burst of energy flares like a match and burns out immediately, and he drops into the chair the landlady has vacated. “I love him so much, I can’t bear it sometimes, and I hate, _I hate_ that I missed it, and I found him like that…” His face crumples. “What do I do?” He whispers.

“Eat this.” When he opens his eyes, Mrs. Hudson is holding a bowl of pasta mixed with a dollop of pesto out to him. “I’ve got a chicken casserole on downstairs, and I’ll bring some up when you eat your pasta. You can’t be of any help if you faint from hunger. Then you’re going to bed.”

He nods numbly; the words are so similar to Mycroft’s, he wonders if he called her and told her to check on him. She pats his shoulder and sniffles.

“You’ll take him to the facility soon, and he’ll get better. He will, John, for you. He does love you, you know.”

John eats mechanically. “I know he does, Mrs. Hudson.” He sets the bowl on the floor by the chair and heaves himself up. “Thanks for the casserole, but I think I’ll just go to bed.” He hugs her tightly for a moment, and then releases her.

“He’ll come back, John. You’ll see.”

He smiles at her briefly, then hauls himself up the stairs.

___________________________________________

To listen to Help I’m Alive by Metric, click [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtA7YIFapnY).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may seem that Mrs. Hudson sort of changed on a dime, but I like to think of her as a person who would have her cry and then kind of yank herself out of it and be all firm and "this is what needs to be done".
> 
> Next: Sherlock re-enters rehab and John has some decisions to make.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock agrees to enter rehab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post this! So much for my original intentions of "update every week to ten days". RL got in the way (stupid June, busiest month ever). I'm sorry if you find Sherlock a bit OOC here, but I tried to keep him as realistic as I thought he would be for a man with everything to lose.
> 
> NOTE: Contains mentions of suicide, methods of self-harm and drug relapse. You may wish to not read if these are triggers for you.

_I sing the song because I love the man_

_I know that some of you don’t understand_

_Milk blood to keep from running out_

(The Needle and the Damage Done, ©Neil Young, 1971)

 

DI Greg Lestrade is a patient man, in many ways. He knows that sometimes, to crack a case, all you need is dogged determination, sometimes a bit of luck, and usually, patience that the right people would put together the right things at the right time.

However, Lestrade has known, and, if he were strictly honest, loved Sherlock Holmes for many years. The younger man is often insufferable, and Lestrade feels at least once per week that he could cheerfully punch Sherlock in the face. But no matter how much he wants to strangle him, Lestrade just can’t forget the first time he met Sherlock: a skinny, strung-out kid so desperate for something, _anything_ , he was willing to put up with any and all abuse from the rest of the Yard team just for something to do.

He has loved Sherlock like a wayward little brother, or like a son, for going on ten years now. And when Sherlock met John Watson, Lestrade was relieved. Not because he felt it absolved him from his own care-taking duties, but because it lightened his heart to see Sherlock, brilliant, eccentric, lost Sherlock, at peace with the world and with his heart. Lestrade had been patient with Sherlock, mostly accepting of his idiosyncrasies. He’d held his hand, held his hair back as he puked, and held back when he felt what Sherlock needed was a good arse-kicking. And slowly, under his patient tutelage, and now under John’s, Sherlock was flourishing. He was now a good man, not just merely a great one.

Lestrade is feeling anything but patient as he stands in an alley, holds the wrist of the junkie dealer in front of him and slowly twists.

“So, Simon,” he says in a faux-pleasant, faux-professional voice, “tell me. What’s new in the heroin game?”

The junkie gasps, his acne scars livid against his white face. “Dis is assault, mate! I din’t do noffing, I’ll ‘ave your badge!”

Lestrade smiles, an unpleasant sort of smile. “Really. You will, will you? Because the way I see it, you’re just a scum junkie who hangs around Hackney, and me… Well, I don’t really have a badge right now, seeing as I’m sort of on secondment, at the moment.” He twists again, feeling thin bones grind under his grip. “Tell me about Jamey Hannigan.”

“Shot,” Simon grits out. His face is grey, and his wrist, Lestrade notes, is turning all sorts of interesting colours. Simon looks over the DI’s shoulder at the tall man leaning against the wall, tapping idly on his phone. “Oi, mate, a little ‘elp!”

“Terribly sorry, I’m rather occupied at the moment,” Mycroft says absently, still tapping away. A black sedan can be seen at the mouth of the alley, its soft purr lost in the noise of London.

Lestrade chuckles. “As you can see, _mate_ , it’s just you and me in this little chat. And that’s all we’re doing, yeah? Just chatting.” He eases off the man’s wrist, just a touch. “We know he was shot. Who did the shooting?”

“Dunno.”

 _Twist; crack._ Simon howls.

“ _FUCK!_ Fuck, okay, okay, Christ. I ‘eard this from someone else, yeah? ‘Is name’s Chan, I ‘eard.”

“Chan?” Behind him, Lestrade feels more than hears Mycroft shift.

“Chan? Chanarong Pradchaphet?” Mycroft comes to stand beside Lestrade. “Is that what you heard?”

“Yeah, ‘s what I said, innit? One o’ them Asian buggers come in last year. ‘E’s put the order out on all the competition, they said.”

“Who’s _they_?” Lestrade asks; when he gets no response, he tightens his grip again. The bones shift and Simon, if possible, goes even greyer. He licks his lips.

“They all do! Fuck, Figg Hanson’s not been seen for two weeks! I ‘eard they cut ‘is throat!”

“Hmm.” Mycroft taps one last time, then slips his mobile into his breast pocket. “Lestrade, I think we have everything we need from young Simon, here.”

Lestrade releases him; Simon’s breath whooshes out and he cradles his injured wrist. “You’re gonna want to put some ice on that, yeah? Maybe head down to the free clinic, where they don’t ask questions.” He pokes at the wrist, a little harder than strictly necessary. “Ooh, that’s swelling already. Be more careful next time.”

The two men slide into the back seat of the Jaguar, and Mycroft directs it to his office. “So Sherlock was right,” Lestrade muses.

“It speaks enormously to my brother’s abilities that he can deliver an international drug ring to us while high,” Mycroft says stiffly. His lips are pursed. “Such a waste.”

“Mmm.” Lestrade is busy making notes from his “interview”. “So, what next?”

“We contact SOCA and let them take it,” Mycroft answers. “Unfortunately, with Hannigan dead, there’s nothing more we can do for Sherlock from that angle.” He sighs. “He needs to concentrate on getting well.”

“Do you believe rehab is the best course of action here?”

“I do, Gregory, I really do. Sherlock may not be addicted to heroin, per se, but he is an addict, and he needs help. We can only do so much for him, unfortunately.”

“And just releasing him to John isn’t enough.”

“At this point, I think not.” Mycroft tents his fingers, and Lestrade is suddenly reminded of Sherlock; the thought is painful. “Last time he was in rehab, he did the bare minimum to meet the standards of recovery. This time, I will insist on therapy, and whatever else the staff, and John, believe necessary.”

“Do you believe him? This was just a last hurrah?”

“I do. At least, I would like to.” Mycroft’s phone chirps, and he pulls it from his pocket, frowning. “SOCA was aware of the new gang in town, but they had narrowed their surveillance to three key figures. They’re going to focus on Chanarong Pradchaphet now. Good work, Gregory.”

“Even if it wasn’t strictly legal?”

“Is your conscience bothering you, Detective Inspector?”

“Nah,” Lestrade replies. “Besides, isn’t that why you were there? Give a gloss to the whole thing?”

“In a manner of speaking. Can I drop you at the Yard? I believe your… secondment is at an end.”

“If you could, Mycroft.”

~~

When John wakes up, it’s gone ten o’clock. He rubs his eyes blearily and blinks in the bright September sun streaming through the window. It’s so bloody cheerful, he almost can’t stand it. He jumps a bit when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

**_Sherlock to be transferred this afternoon at twelve-thirty. A car will be waiting at eleven. MH_ **

John texts back a quick affirmative and drops his phone on his bed. _Their_ bed.

_God help me. What am I going to do?_

He flops on his back and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. God, what a fucked-up mess.

John is completely, irrevocably in love with Sherlock. He knows this; he’s not disputing it. After Afghanistan, before he met Sherlock, he was nothing more than a shell. No career, no job prospects, nothing but a crap bedsit and a heavy gun in a drawer.

But when he met Sherlock, the whole world changed. It was like … a miracle, there’s really no other way to describe it. It was the sun coming up, the stars coming out. It was his heart finding a piece he didn’t even know was missing. Sherlock gave him his life back, gave him the greatest love he’d ever known.

And now, he’s given John the greatest hurt he’s ever known. Worse than Harry lying to him again about the drinking, worse than the fear and disappointment in his mother’s eyes when he signed his enlistment papers, worse even than hot lead tearing through flesh, muscle and sinew.

He has to admit, he’s feeling a bit relieved that Sherlock developed Hepatitis from a dirty needle, instead of screwing some dealer in an alley. Not a lot relieved, but a bit. It makes the betrayal of the act of shooting up just that much easier to bear.

But this is a hard thing. John’s aware that this is a relationship killer, and that for many, there is no coming back from this. Hell, look at Harry and her addiction, her demons; they haven’t been close in years. The only reason they haven’t chucked each other entirely, he thinks, is their sibling bond.

 _Oh, hell_. He opens his eyes and scratches his fingers through his hair. He’ll never chuck Harry. Despite her problems, she’s his sister.

And with that, he knows.

He’ll never chuck Sherlock, either.

It seems trite, he knows. A good sleep, a little soul-searching, and he’s over it, just like that? Well, no.

John is hurting, more than he ever has before. He’s angry, and he’s heartsick, and he’s deeply offended that Sherlock felt he needed to do this, alone, without even telling John, the one person he’s supposed to trust with not only his life, but his heart and his secrets.

But at _his_ heart, John Watson is forgiving. He has to be; he has seen the injustices that people can commit against each other. He’s put his heart on the line, in love and for family, and every time it’s stepped on, he just picks it up, squeezes it back into shape and keeps on offering it out.

Every day, he thanks his lucky stars, or God, or _someone_ , that Sherlock took it gently and treated it with the respect it deserves.

Sherlock’s behaviour is not respectful. It is shameful, and selfish, and mortifying.

But John knows, deep inside, that with a lot, _a lot,_ of work, they can get past this. Sherlock was an idiot, but Sherlock is often an idiot, and he didn’t cheat on John, which is something.

He sort of regrets the ultimatum he delivered a day ago. _(Was it only a day ago? Jesus.)_ He knows, _he knows_ that Sherlock does not respond to ultimatums, he views them as a challenge. But John was angry, exhausted, and fed-up. He was furious with himself for missing the signs he should have seen.

 _Right._ He sits up in bed, decision made. The time for crying is done; the time for self-recrimination is over. He’s going to drag Sherlock through rehab whether he likes it or not, and they will get past this, dammit. This kind of betrayal can be relationship poison, but John is determined to push the antidote and get them through this.

He gets out of bed and heads to the shower.

~~

Sherlock is awake and sitting, when he arrives at eleven-thirty. His eyes are red-rimmed, but clearer than yesterday, and he’s actually eating breakfast. He doesn’t appear to be enjoying it, although how one could enjoy some sort of soggy grey mush in a bowl, complete with a sickly-looking bunch of grapes on the side, is anyone’s guess. John briefly wonders if Sherlock is eating because he knows he has to, or because Mycroft is sitting at his side. His face is impassive, but John strongly gets the feeling that if Sherlock balks at eating, his brother will pinch his nose and pour the food down his throat.

John pauses at the door, uncertain. Sherlock turns to meet his eyes, and John has to put his hand on the doorframe to hold steady. Sherlock’s expressive eyes are truly the windows to his emotions with John: there’s shame there, and fear, and self-loathing, but most of all there’s overwhelming relief.

Mycroft rises in a fluid motion. “I need to sign your discharge papers, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “Finish your breakfast, please.” He gathers his briefcase and umbrella. “John,” he says politely as he passes through the door.

John clears his throat and moves towards the bed. “May I?” He asks, nodding at the chair.

“Please.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse from strain. His body is stiff, and John can feel anxiety radiating off him.

John peers into the bowl. “What’s this, then?” This is a terrible start to a conversation.

Sherlock sniffs. “I’m told it’s oatmeal, but I don’t think this has seen a field in its life, if it ever _was_ alive.” He eats another spoonful, shudders, but swallows it dutifully. “As I recall, the food at Applewood is much more palatable.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock plucks at a grape and swallows it whole.

“Mmm.”

This is horrible, _horrible_ conversation. John takes a deep breath; time to take the bull by the horns.

“Sherlock—“ But he’s cut off.

“John.” Sherlock puts his spoon in his bowl, where it _thunks_ wetly in the grey gunge. “Stop. Listen, please.” He takes his own deep breath. “I’m sorry. I was… an idiot. I knew better than to go down that road again, yet I did. It was thoughtless and selfish, and I’m sorry. It was… I was…” He swallows and takes a sip of water. “There’s nothing I can say. I lied; my behaviour was reprehensible. I’m sorry.” He folds his hands in his lap; they’re so thin, so bony, John thinks. “I’ll do what you and Mycroft require. I’ll go to Applewood, I’ll stay the month, I’m ready to get well.”

John watches Sherlock carefully. There’s no sign of dissembling; not that he expected it, but he knows how Sherlock feels about rehab. His docility seems genuine.

“Will you do the therapy?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists quickly, but he controls his face. “I will.”

“The group therapy, if they recommend it?”

He sighs. “If I must.” He reaches out and grasps John’s hand; John notes in passing that the IV has been removed and replaced with a sticking plaster. “No. I will. If they require it, I will. John, I am a fool. And I believed you when you said that it was rehab, or…” His voice trails off, but his eyes flash with a spark of his usual self. “John, I am well aware that I have completely lost your trust, and there is nothing I can say to repair that. But I will do what it takes: rehab, therapy, whatever you need, I am willing to do it, because I am yours, and I need you, and if you were to leave me, I may as well just do it again.” He sighs, his face pale. His eyes are stormy, but he’s keeping a grip on his emotions. John pulls his hand back.

“Sherlock, you can’t. You can’t emotionally blackmail me into staying.”

“I’m not, John. I’m not trying to blackmail you, or appeal to your innate decency. I’m just telling you, without you, I may as well be in a ditch with a needle in my hand.” He flexes his fingers tentatively towards John. “You have my word. This will never happen again, and I will follow your instructions to the letter.” His jaw is clenched, and John can see what it is costing him, to admit he needs the help, to swallow his pride. “I know the conditions. If I relapse, I understand the consequences. And I will deserve every one of them.” He swallows reflexively and reaches towards John again. “I need you. Help me. Please.”

John catches Sherlock’s hand in his and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “You scared me to death, you know that?”

“I know.”

“I can’t even look at that sofa anymore.”

“I’ll replace it.”

“I thought… I thought…”

“I know, John. I know.”

“You don’t, though, do you?” John meets Sherlock’s eyes again. “You have no idea, none, what it’s like, to find someone the way I found you. Jesus, I thought my heart would stop, Sherlock! I thought you were dead!”

“I…” At John’s warning glance, Sherlock changes what he is going to say. “I can only imagine. I don’t know, I suppose.”

“You don’t.” John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand gently. “You don’t know. But I swear, Sherlock, if you ever do that to me again, I’ll shoot you. I will kill you myself.”

A squeeze lets him know he’s been heard. He lays his head on the thin mattress, and feels Sherlock’s fingers leaf through his hair. “I think we can move past this.”

“You don’t trust me,” Sherlock says softly.

“You’re right, I don’t.” He closes his eyes. “I want to, though. I want to be able to. But you have to help me.”

“I will. I can do that. I will make this up to you, somehow.”

“Get well, first. Please, just get well.”

“I will. I promise.”

There’s a discreet knock at the door, and Catherine Steele pokes her head in. “Sherlock, we’re ready to transport you.” She enters the room fully, and the quiet nurse follows her with a wheelchair. Sherlock shoves his table away and shoves his covers back; John notices he’s in his own pajamas, rather than a hospital gown.

The nurse pushes the chair to the bedside and helps Sherlock into it. He looks rather like a praying mantis folded up, all knees and elbows and sharp angles, John thinks. When Sherlock looks over his shoulder, John gives him a sharp nod.

“I’m right behind you.”

~~

Rather than an ambulance, John and Sherlock ride to the rehab facility in one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars, a Mercedes this time. They make the long drive to the outskirts of London in silence, Mycroft and Anthea working silently on laptops, Sherlock and John staring out their respective windows. John feels rather than sees Sherlock’s reaction when they pull up outside a pair of tightly-woven wrought-iron gates, and he can’t help his own reaction.

The outer perimeter is surrounded by a twelve-foot granite wall, the stone of such a light colour that it’s more decorative rather than oppressive. John can see ivy peeking over the top, beginning to crawl down to the street side; unlike most greenery in the city, it seems to have weathered the recent heat in London admirably well. The gates are woven in a tight, twisting pattern, the iron pounded into thin strips and fused together in a desultory fashion. John recognizes the surroundings for what they are: the high walls are likely impossible to climb, while the openings in the gates are too small for even the thinnest body.

There’s a pause while the driver rolls down the window, and then the gates are opening smoothly and they are passing through to the grounds inside. John can’t help it; his jaw drops open as he takes in the gardens in the mid-afternoon September sun.

The gardens are lush and green, and sprawling widely over a half-block of property. Crushed pebble walkways, bordered by bright flowerbeds, meander through the grass, pausing occasionally for open spaces with stone benches. John’s medical eye is quick to notice the lack of trees and fountains. _Nowhere for someone to “accidentally” hang or drown themselves,_ he thinks grimly. Set back from the gardens, about a half-mile from the gate, is a large, modern building; it looks more like an upscale hotel than a rehab centre.

In the car, the air is thick; all of them are tensely enduring the end of the drive.

When the car pulls up to the front entrance, the door opens and a large woman steps out to stand on the steps. As he opens the door and helps Sherlock out, John looks her over appraisingly. She’s large, but not obese; her bulk is borne more from a lifetime of hard, physical labour rather than doing nothing. Her blond hair is cut no-nonsense short, almost like a man’s, and she’s devoid of makeup. Her face is determined, yet kind; he can see that this is a woman who will fight to the death for her charges, yet won’t take any nonsense from anyone.

He likes her immediately.

“Mr. Holmes, pleasure to see you again.” For some reason, John is not at all surprised to hear a nasal twang in her voice; it just seems to _fit_ with her. She turns to John. “And you’re Dr. Watson.” It’s not a question; clearly she’s been apprised of his attendance on Sherlock. “You’re both most welcome here at Applewood. Sherlock, we’ve booked you into one of the new suites, with a second bedroom, if your doctor here will be stayin’ on.”

“Not necessary, and he will,” Sherlock mutters softly. She gives him a shrewd look.

“I rather suspected it, the last time you were with us. Good for you, then, son. Well, it’s still there if you need it.” She turns back to John and holds out a large hand which dwarf’s John’s own. “Where are my manners? Dr. Lindsay Mitchell, director and chief of staff. Call me Lin.”

“John, please,” he says, shaking her hand firmly. For its size, her handshake is surprisingly gentle. “Where in America are you from?”

“Good ol’ Texas, where everything’s bigger, including yours truly.” She indicates herself, but it’s not self-deprecating; John has the strong impression that this is a woman who is perfectly comfortable with herself. “Came to London for a visiting professorship and stayed on. Y’all know how to treat a lady with brains over here, it seemed to me at the time, and that hasn’t changed.” She gives John a once-over and nods, apparently pleased with what she sees. “Don’t you worry. I’m double-board certified, MD and PhD in addiction psychology, and this ain’t my first rodeo with Sherlock. He and I understand each other, and if that’s changed, then he’ll just have to come around to my way of thinking, isn’t that right, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” the detective replies softly. Lin narrows her eyes at him.

“You had more fight in you last time, son. I’m hopin’ this new attitude just means you accept what’s going on, not that your spirit’s been broken.” She turns to Mycroft, still waiting on doorstep. “Mr. Holmes. Thank you for thinking of us again. I understand your brother’s with us for a month?”

“At least; if you deem it necessary, he shall be enjoying your hospitality longer.”

“Oh, I think a month’ll be plenty; if Sherlock behaves himself, we might even let him out early for good behaviour.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and John feels his mouth open and then close. “I beg your pardon?”

She chuckles. “Let’s not discuss this on the doorstep. Sherlock, your things are in your suite, along with Dr. Watson’s. Jerry here will show you the way.” She indicates a large orderly who materialises from behind the door. “Mr. Holmes, John, if you’d care to come with me to the office, we’ll have us a little talk.”

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. “I’ll be there soon. Just go and settle in, okay?”

He feels a light pressure back. “Alright.” Almost meekly, Sherlock follows the muscular Jerry through the entrance and up a curving, light oak staircase.

Lin steps into the foyer. “Gentlemen, follow me.”

As they walk, John absorbs the environment. The foyer is light and modern, all pale oak with stainless-steel accents. It’s large and open, with the curving staircase at the back. It stops at a mezzanine, and the ceiling is even higher, with a wide skylight to let in enough natural light that the interior lights are almost unneeded. John can’t see into the mezzanine; instead of a banister with spindles, the stairs are bordered by solid wood, as is the edge of the mezzanine.

Lin notices his approval. “We don’t want to encourage accidents here, John. We haven’t lost a patient to suicide in six years, not since the renovations. You’ll see, once you reach the suite, that there’s no place or nothing a patient can possibly use to harm themselves. None of the baths have curtains or curtain rods, and the shower stalls all have tempered glass doors which are coated with a plastic film that, in case the door is broken, keeps all the pieces together. The mirrors are all unbreakable as well.” They reach the office and she opens the door to usher them inside. “When your bag was delivered, we removed your belt; it will be returned to you when you leave us. Also, you’re going to have to surrender your shoes to me for the duration of your stay, but we’ll get you a couple of pairs of loafers to wear around here and on the grounds. You’ll notice that none of the staff wear belts or shoes with laces.” They sit around a basic desk, all false wood surfaces and aluminium frame. “It may seem like we are overly cautious here, but I’ll be damned if we lose one to carelessness on my watch.” She pulls open a drawer and places a sheaf of papers on the desk. “Mr. Holmes, if you’d be so kind? Then I can catch the good doctor here up to speed.” She slides them over the Mycroft, who pulls his fountain pen from his pocket and uncaps it.

As Mycroft reviews and initials the papers, Lin hands John another package. “That’s information about who we are and what we do here. At Applewood, we treat not only the addiction, but the addict. It’s our belief that while genetics can play a role in addiction, much of it can be traced to learned and repeated behaviours, and we work to change those habits so the patient gets well and stays well. Please, take some time to read through all of that and if you have any questions, my door is open to you. Now, I understand from Sherlock’s behaviour earlier that you’re not just his doctor, am I right?” At John’s nod she rises from her chair, crosses to a file cabinet and opens a drawer. She rifles for a moment and then pulls out a cream-coloured folder with HOLMES, SHERLOCK across the top, and returns to her seat.

“Now, I’m goin’ to give you limited privileges at this facility. You will be able to treat Sherlock, and if necessary you may aid the staff in an emergency with another patient, but _only_ in an emergency and _only_ if requested, got it?” When he nods again, she makes a note in the file. “You will stay with Sherlock in the suite. It does have an extra bedroom, if you need it.”

Conscious of having both Lin’s and Mycroft’s eyes on him, John says, “That won’t be necessary.”

“Sherlock did seem pretty adamant, I know, but if you need your own space, it’s there for you. Now, I’ve had some time to review Dr. Steele’s case notes, and she did a thorough job treating him, in my opinion. I’m still concerned about his respiration and breathing, and so is she, based on her notes. But I do disagree with a few of her conclusions. His use of cocaine over the past few weeks leads me to believe he is becoming an addict once again, and we’ll be requiring him to attend all group and individual therapy programs so we can nip that in the bud. I also disagree with her in that methadone is not indicated right now, as he only used heroin the one time and so there’s no need to wean him off it. And I think a month will be ample time for him to get himself back together. And John, you’ll be required to attend therapy as well.”

“What? Why?”

“Because carin’ for an addict is intense, John. It’s draining and it’s hard, often thankless work. If he hasn’t yet, Sherlock will say terrible things to you, and you will want to leave him.” She puts up her hand to forestall any protest. “You will, John. But we have a program for caregivers, where they come and meet with our counselors and get some time to talk and recharge. You’ll be included in those group sessions, and you’ll have individual sessions too.” She holds his gaze with her warm brown eyes, and all John can do is swallow and nod.

With a final flourish, Mycroft finishes signing the papers. It’s odd that he’s been silent all this time, John thinks, but then, he’s been here before.

“Dr. Mitchell, thank you for taking Sherlock in again,” Mycroft says smoothly, pushing the papers back over the desk. “You have my number; please call any time, day or night, to keep me informed. I think you will find Dr. Watson an excellent support for Sherlock.” He rises and tucks the pen back into his breast pocket, and offers John a brief smile. “John, be well, and look after him.” He sweeps through the door and is gone.

John and Lin stand as well. “Do you have any questions, John?” When he shakes his head, she smiles at him. “Okay then. Let’s get you to your room. Sherlock will have a therapy session tomorrow morning at ten, and you can explore the grounds on your own. You’ll have free time until lunch at noon, and then you both will be in group therapy. Breakfast will be brought to your suite, although we do have a dining room, and I encourage you both to come down, if you could.”

They exit the office and start walking towards the stairs. “We have suites here, as well as larger wards for patients who are more at-risk, and smaller, single rooms for those who have begun their recovery.”

“Why the suites? Surely not just for patients in Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s… position.” John tries not to stumble at the words; he’s perfectly aware that somewhere in this building will be a plaque with the words “Courtesy of the Holmes Family” or something similar.

“Oh, no, that’s not really an issue here. I know you’re aware that Sherlock’s brother made a sizeable donation to… ease Sherlock’s way into our facility.” She frowns. “I was against it, but the board of directors insisted. Sherlock didn’t exactly leave her on pleasant terms, last time.”

“I’m sorry, against it? Do you mean against accepting the money, or taking him back?”

“The money. The board was just bein’ spiteful. I was fine with havin’ Sherlock back here; now that I see him, I’m glad he’s back. Although all the fire’s gone out of that boy, John. He’s meeker than a day-old lamb.”

“I think the withdrawal took a lot out of him,” John explains as they reach the top of the stairs.

“Mmm, heroin will do that to a person. And I’m sure the Hepatitis he’s fighting off isn’t helping. Speaking of which, we’ll keep an eye on that, but it often clears up on its own. We’ll be doing regular bloodwork to monitor that.” She leads him down a hallway with light oak floors and white doors on either side. “You’re in number eleven. You’re not the first caregiver we’ve had with us, and we just find it’s easier on all concerned if everyone gets their own space.” She knocks lightly, and then uses a magnetic key, not unlike a hotel key card, to unlock the door. “The doors do lock, but we do have random inspections.” As they shut the door behind them, she hands him the card. “Sherlock has one, too. And I almost forgot. Your shoes, if you please.”

John unlaces his shoes and slides them into a plastic bag Lin holds out. She spins it closed and indicates the closet with a nod. “You’ll find shoes in there. Bathroom through there, bedroom number one on the left, and the second one on the right.” She offers her hand to shake again. “I’m glad you’re here with him, John. I’m anticipatin’ a much easier time of it this go ‘round.” She hefts his shoes in their bag. “I’ll put these in our storage room. Dinner will come around at six, and breakfast tomorrow at nine. The cleanin’ crew will be through every second day; we don’t like to give the patients access to chemicals. Just rest for today.” She indicates a panel by the door. “That’s a medical alert panel; there’s one in each bedroom and in the bathroom. If you need emergency medical help, you press the red button; it connects automatically and a team will be sent out right away.” She smiles at him, and quietly leaves the suite, the door shutting behind her with a soft _snick_.

John looks around. The suite is simple, a sitting room furnished with a sofa and two armchairs, all upholstered in a neutral green check pattern. The window is of wire-mesh glass, and John is pleased to see it only opens about four inches. A small flat-screen television is bolted to the wall, above a low bookshelf filled with about two dozen volumes of varying subjects. There’s no kitchen to speak of, just  a small sink and a plastic kettle off to the side. On a drain board beside the sink are two hard, plastic mugs.

He peeks into the loo; it’s pretty standard, with a toilet, shower stall surrounded by glass, a bright red bathmat and a porcelain sink. There’s a safely mirror bolted to a medicine cabinet above the sink, and a vanity under the sink; when John opens the door, the only contents are a few extra rolls of toilet paper and some towels.

He takes a quick look around the open bedroom. A double bed, with two pillows and a duvet, a low, three-drawer bureau, a nightstand and a wardrobe are its contents. He assumes the other bedroom is much the same, and gets confirmation when he opens the door to check on Sherlock.

The detective is burrowed under the covers, only his hair sticking out. He’s curled on his side, facing the door, and he opens his eyes and peeks above the duvet when he hears the door open. “John.”

“How are you feeling?” John sits on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through the black curls; they’re greasy and lank from neglect.

“Tired. My chest hurts a bit.” Sherlock closes his eyes again and leans into John’s touch. “Don’t stop.”

“Hang on a minute.” John goes around to the other side of the bed and sets the Applewood papers on the nightstand. He climbs in and props a pillow behind his back so he can lean against the headboard, and begins threading Sherlock’s curls through his fingers again. “Better?”

“Mmm. I’ve missed this, John. We haven’t slept beside each other for so long.”

“I know.” John sighs. “I missed it too.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

John’s hand stops moving, but he doesn’t pull it away. “I want to.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no, either.” John resumes his stroking. “I want to forgive you, I really do. But it’s going to be hard. I’m not leaving, though.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sag in relief. “For now? Or forever?” He opens his eyes again and fixes them on John’s. They’re not as red as they were in the morning, and the irises are gunmetal grey. “I remember what you said in the hospital.”

John’s stomach clenches. “Sherlock, I was angry and upset.”

“You have every right to be. But I meant what I said yesterday; I’m seeing this through. I’ll do the therapy, whatever you ask. I’m done with this, John. The highs and lows; they’re just not what they used to be.”

John’s hand stops moving. “You can’t go to rehab because you’re bored of drugs, Sherlock.”

“I’m not _bored_ of drugs. This has nothing to do with boredom; none of it does.” The detective keeps his eyes fixed on John. “But I’m tired of living my life this way. I’m tired of the pull every time I pass the alleys where I used to go; I’m tired of dreading boredom and slowdowns between cases and wondering, is this it? Is this the time where I shoot up again? And I’m tired of seeing you like this. You don’t trust me, and I want you to.”

John sighs as his hand starts stroking again of its own accord. “I do trust you. I trust you with my life.”

“But you don’t trust me with mine. And you should be able to. I see how you look at me sometimes, John.” Sherlock grips John’s wrist to forestall argument. “I see it. You wonder, I know it. I can see sometimes when you go out, you wonder if I’ll give in.” He releases the other man’s wrist, running his thumb down the inside and pressing momentarily against the pulse. “This isn’t fair to you. You shouldn’t have to watch me every minute of the day, and I shouldn’t expect you to. I’m done, I don’t want to be a recovering addict any more. I want to be a former addict. Not recovering; recovered.” He yawns and rolls onto his right side. “Will you sit with me?”

“Of course.” John starts stroking the younger man’s pale cheek with the back of his hand. “Sleep; I’ll wake you when dinner comes.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock snuggles close beside him and closes his eyes.

John picks up the Applewood papers and folds up his knees. He’s about halfway through their philosophy and mission statement when, under his idly stroking hand, Sherlock gives a quick gasp. John smiles.

“Dreaming?”

He glances quickly at Sherlock’s face, and then looks more closely. Sherlock’s lips are slack and are taking on a faint bluish tinge. “Sherlock?”

John drops the papers as he scrambles to his knees and presses his ear besides Sherlock’s mouth. “Jesus, _Sherlock!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not trying to disparage Texas, or Texans, but I've been told (by people who live there) that they do actually say y'all (but then, so do I, and I'm Canadian for God's sake). 
> 
> SOCA is the Serious Organised Crime Agency, a national law enforcement agency in the UK; in 2013 it will be merged into the National Crime Agency. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serious_Organised_Crime_Agency for more information.
> 
> Information on the transmission and treatment of Hepatitis B can be found here: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001324/
> 
> Information on the treatment of addiction can be found here: http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/info/addiction/treatment-for-addiction.php
> 
> If you or someone you care about is struggling with addiction or suicidal ideation, please get help immediately.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the head of the caregiver outreach program at Applewood, who asks some hard questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY for the delay in getting this chapter up! RL is kicking my sorry ass right now.
> 
> If you've stuck with me this far, THANK YOU. I can't tell you how my heart swells when I open my email and see kudos and comments. Whether you're a subscriber or you just found me today, THANK YOU.
> 
> As you've perhaps spotted, I think this will wrap up with just a few more chapters. I may also write a one-shot, alternate ending, since I'm still waffling on how I want this to finish. If you have suggestions or comments, drop me a comment below or send me a message at my tumblr, http://cdngingergirl.tumblr.com/

_I awoke only to find my lungs empty_

_And through the night so it seems I’m not breathing_

_And now my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be_

_And I’m breaking down, I think I’m breaking down._

_And I’m afraid to sleep because of what haunts me_

_Such as living with the uncertainty_

_That I’ll never find the words to say_

_Which would completely explain just how I’m breaking down._

_Someone come and, someone come and save my life_

_Maybe I’ll sleep when I am dead but now it’s like the night is taking up sides_

_With all the worries that occupy the back of my mind_

_Could it be this misery will suffice?_

(Sleeping Sickness, © Dallas Green, City and Colour, 2008)

 

“Sherlock!”

John tries to keep calm. _Emergency panel, where, where?_ He finds it in the wall, just above the headboard, and slaps the red button. White lights begin to flash in the corners of the room and a loud beeping fills the air.

John pulls Sherlock onto the floor and rolls him onto his back. He straddles him and pulls the unconscious man’s t-shirt over his head, noting the increasing blueness of his lips with alarm. “Stay with me, now…” he mutters. He pinches Sherlock’s nostrils, seals their lips together and exhales. Then he slips his hand to the carotid artery.

No pulse.

“Fuck.” He straightens up and begins compressions, keeping his actions rhythmic and his hands steady. He counts to thirty and gives Sherlock two more breaths. He’s just started his second round of compressions when he hears sounds in the outer area of the suite.

“Dr. Watson?”

“In here!” He calls, not slowing his compressions.

Three men, all in pale scrubs, slide into the bedroom.

“He just stopped breathing,” John grunts, trying to keep track of his compressions, “and then he lost his pulse. This is the second round of CPR.”

“Right.” The lead man is crisp, competent. As John completes his compressions, a mask is slipped over Sherlock’s face. “We’ll take over, Dr. Watson. Mike!” He snaps over his shoulder. “Take over compressions on Mr. Holmes. Doctor, if you could just get on the bed, make some room. We’ve got him, we’ll get him down to the infirmary.”

The men work with quickness and confidence. As the lead man takes over CPR, the other two roll a trolley up to the door and, for the second time in just over a week, John watches Sherlock get rolled onto a spine board and placed on the trolley. The smallest of the team scrambles up to straddle the prone form and continue compressions as the other two roll Sherlock out of the suite and down the hall, John at their heels.

In the infirmary, there’s a brief halt as the doctor on call listens carefully with his stethoscope, then shakes his head grimly. John is elbowed out of the way as a portable defibrillator is brought over and charged.

“Clear!”

A loud thunk as the machine is discharged, and then the doctor shakes his head again. “Charge again.”

“Clear!”

 _Thunk_.

Another listen, and this time John sags in relief against the doorframe as the doctor nods. “He’s back. Bag him until we can get oxygen going.” He looks around and spots John in the door. “Doctor Watson? I’m Dr. Keith Ramsay. Can you tell me what happened?”

John repeats what he told the emergency team as the man makes notes in a chart.

“He’s very lucky you were there, sir. Another few minutes and we would be having a different conversation.” He nods as another man in scrubs brings him a folder. “Thank you.” He reads through it quickly. “So Mr. Holmes is recovering from a heroin overdose, I see. And his primary care physician at St. Bart’s was worried about his breathing, and so was our own Dr. Mitchell. Well, we’ll keep him here over night, for starters, and keep him on oxygen. You’re staying with us here?” At John’s nod, he smiles briefly. “Excellent. We have a guest room in the infirmary; you can stay there tonight.” Behind Keith, two nurses are fitting a still-unconscious Sherlock with a cannula connected to an oxygen tank. “We’ll move him behind the curtain—“

He’s interrupted by the arrival of Lin Mitchell.

“John! I just heard.” Her eyes go straight to Sherlock on the trolley behind Keith Ramsay. “Oh my word. That poor boy.” She turns to the two men. “John. What happened?”

John explains again, briefly, how Sherlock stopped breathing, how he did CPR and how the medical staff brought them here to the infirmary. But he only has eyes for the still figure on the gurney. He looks up suddenly when someone squeezes his hand.

“John. I understand you’re stayin’ in the infirmary tonight?” When John nods, Lin continues. “Okay, then. I’d like you to meet someone before you settle in.” At John’s widened eyes, she squeezes his hand again. “Don’t panic, son. Sherlock’s here, he’s stable, and Keith and I will stay with him until you come back. But I think you need to talk with someone before he wakes up.” She turns to a slim man in blue scrubs; John recognizes him as the one who continued CPR on Sherlock as they were rolling him down the hall. “David, would you be so kind as to ask Ethan to join us?”

 When David nods and slips from the room, she turns back to John. “Ethan McIntyre is the therapist in charge of our caregiver program. I’d like the two of you to talk today, John. You were going to join his group tomorrow, but I think you should meet him now.”

John finally finds his voice. Since Sherlock’s collapse, he’s only explained what happened, and not gotten another word in edgewise. “I think I’d prefer to stay here, Lin,” he starts, attempting to keep his voice mild, but Lin’s shaking her head and drawing him out into the hall.

“Son, you’ve been looking after Sherlock a while now, right? And I don’t just mean this nasty business. I mean since the two first met, you’ve been lookin’ out for him, makin’ sure he eats, sleeps, stays well.”

“I—“

She holds up a hand to forestall any protest. “Don’t you lie to me, son. You forget, I was here the first time around with all this ugliness; I know him pretty well, I know how he operates. Sherlock, for all his brilliance, he’s just a boy in a man’s body. He _needs_ lookin’ after, and we both know it. And he needs you, I saw that when y’all arrived this afternoon. And if that’s your calling, if you feel like takin’ care of that boy is what you were put on this Earth to do, then all the power to you. But son…” And she takes John’s shoulders in her warm hands.

“John, you have to look after yourself. You can’t do anything for him if you are so tired, so burnt out, so resentful of him that you just pick up and walk out. You need a break, darlin’, and I’m going to see you get one.”

She looks over John’s shoulder; John half-turns to see an older gentleman walking down the hall with David, the young medic. Lin steps up to meet them, turning John as she does. “Dr. John Watson, I’d like you to meet Ethan McIntyre, clinical psychologist and the head of our caregiver outreach. Ethan, John came in with Sherlock Holmes.”

Ethan is tall, almost as tall as Sherlock. His eyes are a watery green, and he sports a full head of straight, iron-grey hair with a neatly trimmed beard to match. He smiles gently and shakes John’s hand. “I’d heard young Mr. Holmes was back with us. Are you his primary caregiver, Doctor Watson?” He has a pleasant Scottish burr, diluted with time spent in London and elsewhere.

“Call me John. And, I suppose I am. Sherlock and I, we live together, we work together…” He finds it hard to continue. Ethan’s eyes are suddenly a lot sharper.

“I understand. Why don’t we take a walk.” He nods at Lin. “I’ll return him to the infirmary when we’ve chatted, alright?”

“Thanks for this, Ethan.” Lin is as warm as ever. “John, I will sit with Sherlock until you come back, and I’ll have David bring your things to the guest room. We’ll have some dinner when you’re done with Ethan.” She pats his shoulder, and John suddenly remembers his grandmother, all strong hugs and oatmeal biscuits. It’s funny, she and Lin are nothing alike, and yet both his nannie and this comfortable, warm woman seem to know just what to do to keep him from flying apart.

~~

Ethan takes John on a tour of the facility, rather than to his office, as John had expected.

“I understand this is your first visit to Applewood,” Ethan says as they pass an outside seating area furnished with thickly cushioned wicker chairs. “First impressions?”

John grits his teeth. “Look, Ethan. I understand what you’re trying to do here.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You’ve taken me out, shown me the grounds, you’re trying to distract me. But I really should be in the infirmary.”

Ethan points to his left. “That rose garden was donated by the family of a young lady we helped last year. Isn’t it lovely? I come out to read here, if I don’t have a session scheduled.”

John closes his eyes, then opens them slowly and counts to ten. Although the temperature outside is pleasant, storm clouds are gathering to the north.

“As Lin mentioned, I am the head of our caregiver outreach here at Applewood. Lin and I believe that recovering addicts need strong support systems, and that such support, itself, requires help. We work with the caregivers of our patients to make sure their needs are being met.”

John takes a deep breath, then lets it out. He starts counting again. He understands the rationale behind this, and he appreciates the effort, but he can’t stop thinking about Sherlock. “Ethan, you seem nice, but…”

“It’s fine, I know you’re worried about him. You don’t have to say anything at all, but Lin feels you could use a break, and I agree. While you’ve been taking care of Sherlock, who’s been taking care of you?”

John takes a deep breath and smiles politely. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really… know you. And I’m not really comfortable discussing my relationship with you.”

“Let’s sit on that bench next to the hydrangeas, shall we? I didn’t ask about your relationship with Sherlock, and if you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine. I merely wondered who has been taking care of you, through all of this?”

John simply stares at Ethan; Ethan returns the look, calmly and without guile. Finally John slumps back on the bench. “We look after each other.”

“I can see that; I haven’t spoken to Sherlock, and I’m unlikely to interact with him in a professional capacity, but it’s clear you care about him, and I heard Lin when she said he needs you. But I can also see that you’ve taken on the role of caregiver in your relationship. However, as much as you need to be needed—is it fair to say that? –, your needs must also be met. Is Sherlock able to do this for you?”

“Of course!”

“Can you give me an example?”

John opens his mouth, then closes it again, and frowns. “I don’t have to justify my relationship to you.”

“Aren’t these paths beautiful? We have an excellent grounds crew. And I didn’t ask you to justify it. But I have noticed you’re a bit defensive, John. Can it be because you feel that what you and Sherlock have isn’t exactly equal?”

John can’t believe his ears. Why is he sitting here listening to this nonsense when inside, Sherlock is lying unconscious in an infirmary, or possibly worse? He has no idea, since he’s stuck here.

Seeing the look on his face, Ethan calmly pulls his mobile from his pocket and presses a button. He pauses, and then says, “May I please have an update on Sherlock Holmes’ condition? Thank you, Keith.”

He hangs up and says, “Sherlock woke up briefly, and then fell asleep. He’s resting comfortably, and Lin and Keith are still with him.” He twists around and cracks his neck. “John, I know you don’t want to discuss what you and Sherlock have, and that’s fine. I’m not here to disparage anything between the two of you. But it’s very important that in a relationship where one partner spends an inordinate amount of time caring for the other that the caregiver gets the support they need. The staff here has seen too much repeat business from addicts whose support fell apart under the strain, which is why we put this program in place.

“We value life here, John, and we don’t want to see any of our patients back again, if we can help it. So please believe me when I say that I’m not judging your relationship, and I’m certainly not casting aspersions on Sherlock and his addiction. My role here is simply to see that _you_ are being taken care of, that _your_ needs are being met, so that you can be the best partner for Sherlock, everything he needs. So I ask again, who looks after you?”

John deflates; all the defensiveness (Ethan was right, he thinks wryly) seeps out of him, to be replaced by exhaustion. “Sherlock.”

“In what way?”

“Because he does look after me. He may not in a traditional sense… I’m responsible for paying our bills, getting our groceries. I patch him up when the idiot gets himself stabbed because he isn’t listening and charges through a murder scene recklessly. I clean, I cook, I’m the domestic one. But he…” He trails off, remembering. “You know, he cured me.”

“I didn’t know.”

“When I came home from Afghanistan, I was limping. Psychosomatic, I knew, but the limp was there, nothing for it. And in one night, he cured me. He gave me adventure, excitement, life… I didn’t even know I was missing it. He gave me purpose, again.”

“Ah, a sense of purpose. I can see how that would be important, to a military man such as yourself. My uncle served in Korea, and I remember how challenging he found retirement. Would it be fair to suggest that Sherlock gave you a reason to live?” Ethan pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. “I find it still a bit warm for me. Would you care to see the rest of the building as we chat?”

“I guess so, yeah.” The two men rise and turn towards the building. The air is still, muggy and full of promise of a storm.

“Applewood was originally a holiday camp for disadvantaged children. You can still see parts of the original dormitories there and there.” Ethan points left and right. “It was closed in the early 80’s in a round of budget cuts, and then, in 1991, gutted by fire. It remained empty until a group of developers bought it, intending to set up condominium high rises, but the deal didn’t happen and they were forced to sell at a loss. The predecessors of the current Board of Directors bought it and set up the original Applewood. When Lin came in, she organized the renovations, the results of which you see before you.” He indicates the open foyer as they walk through the door; the interior lights seem brighter now that the storm clouds are blocking the sun.

“Why Applewood?”

“It’s my understanding that the land originally had an apple orchard on it. Of course, that was all cleared away when the facility was renovated.”

John tugs at his collar as they walk under the staircase and turn left. “Were there suicides here before, when the trees were still here?”

“Three, actually. It was the easiest part of the renovations. Lin is dedicated to her patients, and she made a compelling case for uprooting them. The original architect hired to do the renovations was very…” Ethan purses his lips as he considers. “Traditional, is perhaps the word? He designed something that was very dark, heavy wood, spindles and balustrades, heavy bathtubs and no suites, no windows. Very Gothic and depressing. Lin fired him and brought in someone she interviewed herself, and approved all the designs. The board wasn’t happy, but I think her results speak for themselves; we haven’t lost a patient to suicide since the renovations were complete.”

“But you have lost patients in other ways?” John is thinking about Sherlock, still and silent with blue lips in their suite.

Ethan sighs as they walk into a large, airy games room. There’s table tennis, board games, and packs of cards, and a chess board is set up next to the window. “Unfortunately, yes. Occasionally our patients come to us with underlying health conditions or complications from the substances they’re abusing. The mobile medic teams were created after one such death.” He indicates the chess board. “Do you play?”

John feels his lips twist in what might be a smile, or a smirk. “Not very well. Sherlock’s been teaching me, but we seldom have time to just sit and play, and I’m really not very good.”

“Neither am I, I’m afraid, but would you care for a game? Your leg must be bothering you.”

John blinks; when he looks down, he can see he’s gripping the table hard enough that his knuckles are white, and he’s shifted his weight onto his good leg.

“Please, sit.”

They take their seats at the board; John moves his white pawn first.

Ethan counters by moving his knight; it’s an aggressive attack. “John, I hope you believe me when I say I’m here to help you. You’re clearly under stress. How long have you been holding on to the two of you?”

John can hear Sherlock in his head: _Keep your opponent off balance, John._ “I don’t hold us together. We keep us together, Sherlock and I.” He moves another pawn out.

“Of course, of course. But you said that Sherlock cured you and yet, as we walked, you were limping. How do you explain that?” A black pawn immediately captures it.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired, I guess. It’s been a long week.”

“Mmm.” John slides out a white pawn; Ethan pushes out his knight. “This can’t be easy on you. How do you and Sherlock spend your time?” John moves another pawn out as bait, and is glad to see Ethan take it. He captures the black pawn with his bishop.

“He’s a detective, and he consults for Scotland Yard, as well as taking private clients. He solves cases.”

“And what do you do, while he’s solving cases?” Ethan moves his other knight out; John moves his bishop back into position, eying one of Ethan’s knights. He doesn’t take it immediately, though; instead, he waits, pulling out his own knight. Ethan moves his second knight to intercept, and John strikes. He hears Sherlock again as he captures both knights in two moves: _Well done, John. Watch his queen, she’s slippery._

“What do you mean, what do I do? I help him.”

“How?” John loses his bishop to a pawn, but it’s worth it.

“Well, I… help determine the cause and time of death, if there’s a body. I accompany him all over town, chasing criminals. I provide backup.” He moves his knight out; Ethan immediately takes it with his queen, but it doesn’t matter, as John is perfectly able to capture the valuable piece with a pawn. He sees Ethan frown in concentration as he studies the board.

“Backup. Interesting choice of word, there. I wonder why you chose it.” He moves his bishop one square.

John moves a pawn out of the path of his queen, but Ethan, reading his intention, quickly castles. _Sloppy, John. Very sloppy._ “Well, I back him up. Sherlock is… he’s excitable, I suppose you could say. He gets so into the chase that sometimes he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings. He’s found himself looking into the business end of a gun more than once.” John castles in his turn, and is glad, as Ethan uses his rook to capture a pawn. John takes the black rook out quickly.

They exchange pawns. “How do you feel about that? I suppose one could say that, as backup, you’re always behind Sherlock, in his shadow, both literally and figuratively.”

John frowns as he moves his knight. It’s a stupid move; he misses Ethan’s bishop, which takes his rook. He’s able to counter with his knight, but he knows it’s just a matter of time.

“It’s fine, I guess. I mean, Sherlock, he likes the spotlight, you know? He rattles off his deductions while hardly taking a breath, and every eye is on him. Me, I’m just… part of the team. I back him up, and then I blog about it.”

They exchange pawns again as John tries to manoeuvre his remaining bishop into position. It’s not going well; between his knight and his rook, Ethan has John more or less pinned down.

“A blog? Fascinating. I’ll have to look it up. I’m sure it’s excellent.”

John waves a hand dismissively as he uses his second-last pawn as bait. It works; it draws Ethan’s last bishop, which John captures with his rook. He can’t believe his eyes. _Press home your advantage, John._

“Sherlock thinks it’s ridiculous, but I enjoy writing it, and I believe people enjoy reading it.”

Ethan makes a spectacularly bad move; John can’t decide, as he captures Ethan’s last rook, if Ethan really is as terrible as he said he was, or if he’s losing on purpose. He checkmates Ethan and stands.

“This has been very interesting, but I really need to get back upstairs.” He holds out his hand, and Ethan shakes it firmly. “Good game. I’ll see you in a session, I’m sure.”

He’s halfway out the door of the games room when Ethan calls behind him. “John!” When he partly turns, Ethan is still sitting at the table. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re clearly more than just backup for him. Oh, please excuse me a moment.” He pulls his trilling phone out of his pocket and presses a button.

“Yes? Ah, very good, Lin. Thank you.” He pockets his phone. “He’s awake and asking for you. They’ve brought your things to the guest room, as well as some food.” He stands and meets John in the doorway; his eyes are kind. “I’m holding a session tomorrow afternoon; if Sherlock is well enough, I’d like you to attend. I understand if you can’t, but I think you would find it beneficial.” He pats John’s arm as they walk towards the stairs.

Lin meets them at the door of the infirmary. “John, he’s goin’ to be fine, I think. He’s awake and talkin’, although he’s weak as a new kitten. I don’t have to tell you to be gentle with him.”

John nods, although he’s too busy looking over her shoulder at Sherlock propped up in bed with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a cannula in his nose.

“Go on, son. He’s been askin’ after you.”

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He moves swiftly to Sherlock’s bed and catches the thin hand in his own. Sherlock wraps his other hand around the back of John’s head and presses their foreheads together. His breathing is raspy, but he’s breathing, and that’s something.

________________________________________________________________________________

To listen to Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour (featuring Canadian rock royalty Gordon Downie from The Tragically Hip), click [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xiq0IiGilXE).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the chess game came from one I was playing against the computer as I was writing, and I detailed our moves as we made them (I played white). I was convinced I was going to lose badly, and then the computer made SUCH a bad move, even I spotted it, and it was over pretty quickly.
> 
> For information on the British involvement in the Korean war (as mentioned by Ethan in connection with his uncle, see http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/1285708.stm
> 
> Interesting Sherlock fact: it is recommended that, when performing CPR, you should keep the song Stayin' Alive in your head, as it has 103 beats per minute, the perfect rate to perform compressions. For more information, see http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27221281/ns/health-heart_health/t/keeping-beat-cpr-hum-stayin-alive/#.UA9BVbT8u8A

**Author's Note:**

> I hope to update weekly / every 10 days or so. No ideas yet on how long this will be.


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